young voices ‘09 - Typepad · Her nose perfectly shaped to fit her face. Curved in the right...

young voices ‘09m a g a z i n e o f t e e n w r i t i n g a n d a r t w o r k

t o r o n t o p u b l i c l i b r a r Y

young voices 2009

climate changeMichelle Zhong, age 12

young voices 2009

Contents

Poetry

simply said | Samuel Wu, age 12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1Perfect | Antonella Strazzeri, age 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1Faerie’s First Waltz | Aracely Reyes, age 19. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3What If... | Farheen Kadwa, age 13. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4Another Day | Tracy Nguyen, age 15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6Mother’s shadow | Kathy Zhang, age 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8Another Day | Ellisia Zografos, age 13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9allegany county | Yael Citron, age 17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12Mia, My Doll | Mithila Rajavel, age 16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12Gift | Janel Halenko, age 15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15the Five Hundred Million and nine Dozen | Helen Zhang, age 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15Dust | Ira Halpern, age 14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19Dance | Elaine Yang, age 15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19Rape | Jackson Ji, age 18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23the Unknown student | Anna Jiang, age 13. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23ode to My eraser | Jennifer Wong, age 17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26Breath | Emmanuel Appiah, age 13. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27Voice | Laura Sabia, age 16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28she told Me | Mahfara Bakht, age 16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29the tap | Cameron Cardwell, age 17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31World Hunger | Priyadarshini Roy, age 13. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31Poem of Hope | Marie Lane, age 15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32A Puppeteer’s Choice.| Ashley Lo Russo, age 18 .. . . . . . . . . 35never Gave Much thought | Erika Chung, age 15 . . . . . . . . 40the Game of Life | Alyssa Frank, age 12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42two Weeks to Live: A sonnet | Nithla Mohanathas, age 17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43Remembering | Jenny Shen, age 16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45Power | Rudrapriya Rathore, age 16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48scream | Abby Zednilag, age 13. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49the Last sonnet | Daniel King, age 18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49A bus incident.| Maggie Mai, age 17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51

Prose

Fireworks | Sharna Alam, age 13. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3the sweetest treat | Mufan Yang, age 15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4My City | Daniela Costa, age 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6the Last Vacation | Rachel Davis, age 16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8Dreaming | Sara Vladusic, age 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10the Beginning | Jennifer Lamb, age 17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13Untitled | Alena Bozic, age 14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15I’m not saying that out Loud | Meagan Cacheiro-LeMay, age 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15the exorcism | Tiffany Chan, age 15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16Fifty sad Chairs | Rebecca Chang, age 16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19Dear Facebook, | Katrina Dickson, age 19. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23nothing Comes to Mind | Nong Li, age 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24.I Am Ready to Perform | Alexander De Pompa, age 14 . . . 24

the Wonders of technology (and that dead man lying on the street).| Roni Luo, age 16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26Untitled | Hayley Ossip, age 18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27Koalas and Kangaroos | Madeleine Bondy, age 15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28Wait For Me | Sierra Sun, age 13. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31the Hitch-Hiker | Andy Huang, age 13. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32Lost, Forever | Irene Li, age 16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35Untitled | Beatrice Paez, age 19. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35Colours and shapes | Chloe Jennings, age 17. . . . . . . . . . . . . 36Blinded by the Rain | Annie Li, age 17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39sandcastles | Ben Donato Woodger, age 15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40Pomegranate | Enxhi Kondi, age 15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42Double trap Back | Lisa My Huynh, age 14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42Untitled | Jackie Mahoney, age 15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43order Here | Anna Norris, age 16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43not Yet | Amy Schacherl, age 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47never to Hold | Wendy Tan, age 15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47sibling Wars | Lily Stafford, age 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48

Art

Corroding.| Cynthia Ho, age 16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . cover

Climate Change.| Michelle Zhong, age 12. . inside front coverWarrior.| Blake Abbey-Colborne, age 15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2Ryan.| Andrew Bonnycastle, age 16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5serenity.| Sai Paranjape, age 19. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7swallowtail.| Jenny Bonnycastle, age 13. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7I would like to thank the many identities I’ve had in this dynasty.| Hillary Chan, age 15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11A Cat’s Meow.| Linda Du, age 13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14I Hand You My Heart.| Lidia Hatif, age 17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17Am I Ben the Bunny?.| Aimee He, age 12. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18our Generation.| Brian Ho, age 16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21street of Vietnam.| Johnson Huang, age 15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22setting sun.| Anjali Kugathas, age 15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25Urban Renewal.| Tian Yang Lin, age 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30Unrequited.| Wendy Long, age 16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33Being Yourself.| Bonnie Mai, age 16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34World’s natural Beauty.| Aneri Patel, age 13. . . . . . . . . . . . 37natural Beauty.| Ramya Rajagopal, age 19. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38the Village of Canada.| Kevin Wu, age 12. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41Lunar Keeper.| Nancy Wu, age 12. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44Ladybugs Fly.| Jason Yu, age 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46the Heart Within.| Sara Wu, age 13. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50My Canadian Voyage.| Ainun Zaria, age 16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52When she Leaves.| Cathy Su, age 14. . . . . . . . inside back coverYutaka 1971-2009 | Mandy Han, age 15. . . . . . . . . . . back cover

2010 Submission Form. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54

young voices 2009

The writers and artists in these pages have at least two things in common: they live or go to school in Toronto, and they respond to the world around them with originality, imagination and creativity. For many contributors, this is their first publication and an important step in helping them define themselves as writers and artists. We know you will continue to enrich our city with your creative visions.

One magazine, of course, doesn’t have room to contain the visions of a whole city full of young writers and artists. So, we send a big thank you to everyone who submitted work this year and encourage them to continue submitting. It takes bravery to shape your thoughts on paper and to send those thoughts out to share with the world. Keep on creating!

The writing and artwork in this edition of Toronto Public Library’s magazine for teen writing and art was selected by editorial teams consisting of teens working with Toronto writers Hadley Dyer, Emily Pohl-Weary, Karen Krossing, Camille Martin, Dwayne Morgan and Kevin Connolly, and Toronto artist Michael Brown. Thanks to members of Toronto Public Library’s Editorial Youth Advisory Group who helped select this year’s works:Min Che, Keren Ginzberg, Thamy Giritharan, Gerry Gotesman, Elaisha Green, Michelle Huang, Ishanee Jahagirdar, Sharnelle Kan, Da Eun Kim, Anna Li, Kimia Moozeh, Aruna Raghuraman, Justine Shackleton, Sakshi Sharma, Ksenia Stassiouk, Jared Stephens, Tamara Thompson, Hannah Tse, Sivani Vijayakumar, Deanne Vincent, Inna Yakalov, Stephanie Yip, Stephanie Zhou.

We hope that, no matter what your age, you will be surprised by what you find in the pages of Young Voices. There is humour, loneliness, passion, sensitivity and, above all, talent in everything you are about to enjoy.

Welcome to Young Voices 2009

CorrodingCynthia Ho, age 16

Cover Art

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young voices 2009 1

simply said

WordsAre dotsIn patternsThey control everyoneThey help everyoneAnd hurt everyone

FearOf wordsIs like fearOf bullets ripping throughYour skin or a beast Tearing you apartPieceB yP i e c e

LackOf wordsIs like beingAlone, helpless, an outlawExiled to an unknown placeLike watching, with no hand or voice

Samuel Wu, age 12

Perfect

I stand here today. A woman. A great creation that has lay under rocks and hands of men. Women are the most extravagant creations of all times and lack nothing but the freedom to express their want of equality and respect. Now I say that women obtain greatness in all aspects starting from the head.

Her long hair, varied in colour and style. She has the ability to change it to fit her mood. Her eyes sparkle like no man’s eyes can. She can get anything she wants with a glisten of her eye. Her nose perfectly shaped to fit her face. Curved in the right places, arched to hook the smells of hate toward her beauty.Her mouth is there to speak the truth, and to speak beautiful words of empowerment. Her heart, to give love to her children and husband, To allow them to feel the overwhelming power of a woman’s love. Her stomach to hold life and sustain life, To make the men and women of tomorrow.Her legs to hold herself,To hold her heavy pride of womanhood.To stand for her rights.Her feet to feel the ground she buildsThrough the people her mother’s mothers built

Now try to find one part of a woman that does not have a great beauty and purpose in life.

Antonella Strazzeri, age 17

young voices ‘09

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WarriorBlake Abbey-Colborne, age 15

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Faerie’s First Waltz

When our eyes first met I was swimming,A clear and cool aquatic green caressed my auburn flames.For miles I only saw the sea, and knew I must have been dreaming.I was hesitant to touch your hand, and find myself with nothing to claim.

It was the forest, its deep earth smells and crisp drop of dew.It was the rivers, and their soft humming voices that lulled me away.They stood somewhere at a distance, as I continued to look at you.Had I ever wished to be whisked away, it had come at last today.

When my tongue finally settled in my mouth,And I found my mouth was moistened again.I tried to speak, but the words came out soft,I was threatened by your ability to sway me, like lady bugs in the rain.

Your skin is hue of the twilight, mirroring the sun.Mine is of the dawn, like the sun’s faint glow when it rises.You, my opposite and my other half.And I, your counter partner and your delight.

Roses unfurl against my cheeks.Laid there sweetly, from your fingers and kisses.My legs tremble, buckle, nearly weak.I close my eyes and touch your tresses.

A gold ring covers your neck, as I wrap my arms around you.Silver in turn surrounds my waist, your touch sweet enough to taste.My ear rests over your heart as it pulses under your blue skin.Your chest rises and falls unsteady, our hearts begin to race.

I am rising towards the surface; the sea carries me slowly,I don’t want to take a breath, but drown in your ecstasy.I find myself in your tight embrace, as the sun welcomes me gently.The forest around us, and the river beside in lullaby.

My words are whispered, and strain to reach your ears. My body begins to glow, as day draws its curtains.I raise my head and cry, your gaze quickly dismisses my fears.Cobalt wings unfurl behind you, your hands grasp my chin.

A smile, a kiss, I dive once more into your sea.And as the skin of my shoulder blades fall away,I glance back at you, giving you my silent wish.The moon rises, shining splendour, equal to sun’s ray.

With your hand in mine, my hand in yours.My gold wings flutter, our feet pitter pat on the ground.We rise over the river bank, over the forest walls.We meet and touch the night, and swirl in song.

Aracely Reyes, age 19

Fireworks

She was… just perfect.Amazing really, the way her eyes sparkled as she

watched fire light the sky. The way her bell-like voice chimed whenever she saw a particularly large firework.

Jamie was sweet, kind and my childhood friend. We haven’t met in a while, in over five months, so we were delighted to have this opportunity.

July the first is our special day. We celebrate our country, like everyone else, but we also celebrate our own birthday. So as we lay there on the roof of her house on this warm summer night, we can pretend the sky is lit up just for the two of us.

I looked over at her, the sudden urge to touch her washed over me. So I did, running my fingers through her silk-like hair. It wasn’t the first time, I’d touched her before. Small caresses on her cheeks, loving pats on her head, little things.

She shifted her gaze from the sky, looking at me with a small smile and moving slightly from her position so she was supporting herself on her elbows.

“What’s up?” she asked, though I knew she wasn’t as concerned for me as she was of missing the fireworks. I nodded no and moved my gaze up, feeling her mimic me.

My fingers were still entangled in her bangs when a large firework went off, and neither one of us could stop the childish ‘wow’ from leaving our mouths. We looked at each other, identical grins adorning our faces, as the red light started to fade.

“You saw that one, right Chris?” she asked; voice so much like a five-year-old that I couldn’t suppress the laugh that fell from my lips. Jamie pouted, full red lips contrasting against pale skin. I wanted to kiss her. I’ve had that urge for some time now.

I knew it’d be awkward if I tried, our relationship revolving around a brother-sister factor. We had different parents, true, but we were raised together. Born in the same hospital, on the same day (though I was older by some hours), we’ve been practically inseparable from birth. We were raised as siblings, and I knew these feelings were odd.

I knew it’d be awkward, as I leaned towards her. I saw the pink blush that dusted her cheeks when I was mere

4 young voices 2009

inches away from her face; I also saw the confusion and slight fear in her eyes.

I knew it’d be awkward. So, just as our lips were about to touch, I kissed her forehead and wrapped my arms around her neck, our cheeks flush against each other.

“What’d you think I’d do?” I asked mischievously, hoping she wouldn’t hear the longing in my voice.

“N-nothing,” she stuttered, her eyes snapping back to the flashing lights in the sky, small hands clutching at my forearms as she sat in my embrace until our moms came to get us for dinner.

Sharna Alam, age 13

What If...

What if grasses were blue and skies were green?What if elephants had no earsand ghosts could be seen?

What if Christmas was in summeron August the 25th?What if Santa wore a swimsuit and actually gave everyone gifts?

What if cats were called dogs,and dogs were called cats?What if cows couldn’t moo,and tigers wore hats?

What if Cinderella never lost her shoe?And Humpty Dumpty didn’t fall?What if Goldilocks was a bearand the Wolf lived in the mall?

What if the world had no colours,and it was all in black and white?What if electricity was never invented,and there were no TVs or lights?

What if we couldn’t laughand all we could do was cry?What if we had to throw away everything that we would buy?

What if there were no numbersand there were no words?What if we couldn’t use a bandageevery time it hurts?

What if Spiderman never existed,and Dr. Octopus took over the world?What if Batman was evil,and The Hulk was a girl?

What if fans were used in winter,and blankets were used in summer?What if everything was fake,and life was all a bummer?

What if I kept on writing,and you kept on reading?What if this poem never ended,but, oh well, it just did.

Farheen Kadwa, age 13

the sweetest treat

When I was little, my mother would give me one piece of caramel every month. I was jealous of the other kids… they could have any treat, any time.

I lived in a small town in northern Manitoba, where there was not much to do but follow the daily routine. Occasionally, I would look up at the sky and look for tasty treats in the clouds, although usually I could only spot ice cream scoops and melted marshmallows.

My mother worked most of the time, leaving before I woke up, and returning after I fell asleep. She worked every day, except for the last day of every month. I loved these days, when I could come home and say, “I’m back!” On those days, my mother made me feel like she would always be home. At the end of the day, after we had had our fun, she would give me a piece of caramel.

Sometimes, I felt like my life was bitter. Sometimes I felt like hating my mother for not always being with me. Those feelings stopped after my fourteenth birthday, when I saw what my mother did for a living. She worked three jobs daily, but still did not have enough money to give me what the other kids had. I was even more shocked to discover what my mother had to go through to stay home at the end of each month. She could have that day off if she agreed to cut $100 off her paycheques.

My life is not bitter. I do not need the latest trends or unlimited sweets, because I know that I already have the sweetest treat.

Mufan Yang, age 15

young voices 2009 5

RyanAndrew Bonnycastle, age 16

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Another Day

There’s a world filled with hatred, injustice and lies.In the midst of the darkness, a baby cries.A mother weeps for her newborn daughter.Born in a country where there is no food or water.Us, fortunate ones, what do we say?We turn our heads away, “They’ll survive another day.”

To get undrinkable water, she walks miles and miles.A boy with no family, he no longer smiles.With water at hand, with iPods and games,We care not for them; it’s all just the same.Us, fortunate ones, what do we say?We turn our heads away, “They’ll survive another day.”

A village full of children, parents taken by HIV.This is all they have left; this is their family.A five year old girl carries her baby brother on her back.We have money to spare but it’s compassion we lack.Us, fortunate ones, what do we say?We turn our heads away, “They’ll survive another day.”

So what do we live for, what is the meaning of life?Do we pity their stories? Are we thankful it’s not our strife?We have one life to live, so live it to do good.It doesn’t have to be a lot, just all that we could.So, us fortunate ones decided to help today,But they’ve gone far away… they didn’t have another day.

Tracy Nguyen, age 15

My City

Brap, brap, brap!Go the bullets late at night.Not my night, you say?My nights are spent snuggled up in bed,In a bungalow,Right above Rogers and Dufferin where the only thing I could be scared of are the ghosts over at Prospect Cemetery. Indeed, what do I know about brap, brap, brap?I watch the news, I hear the horror stories.There is no disconnect.What do I know about brap, brap, brap?I know I’m told where I can and cannot walk in my city.I know I’m told not to get off a stop too early because I’m sure to get mugged.I know I’ve seen neighbourhoods closed off from each other by fences.I know that there are streets in this city deemed criminal factories.I know that it’s cool to grab some Mickey D’s on St. Clair

during the day, but don’t you dare make a pit stop at Coffee Time past eleven.My cousins did.They got roughed up.Seems friends are only friends till a mob of men in Rocawear show up.Booked it!Plain and simple, my cousins got their butts whooped.The iPods they loved so much?Gone.Cell phones were used to their limits, only to be abandoned at the local Mandarin.But maybe my cousins were asking for it.I mean, who wears Jordans past midnight on St. Clair?They got what was coming to them, right? Wrong.This is Canada, baby!Land of democracy.Hell, the T dot is where it’s at!Freedom of mobility, people.Public property is public at all times and to everybody.I’ll accept this is your “turf” when you show me your papers.Do not tell me where I’m allowed to walk.I should be able to take a stroll through Regent Park if I want to.I should...but I won’t.And why not?I fear for my life.I’m not the only one.You’ve ruined entire neighbourhoods for people.Mothers refuse to let their children play in the front yard for fear of a bullet finding its mark.The city is at war.There is no end in sight.It’s a crackdown on weapons, violence, and drugs.Well, maybe crack wasn’t the best choice of words, but I digress…Cops, politicians…citizens, against you self-proclaimed “thugs”.Your numbers are small in comparison and yet you’re still winning.The victims...my cousins, that mother, her child...me.We sit back while you two duke it out, praying for a better tomorrow.What do I know about brap, brap, brap?I know that I live it every day in what I cannot do.Here’s a message to all you “thugs” out there:One of these days I’m going to join in on this war.My weapons of choice will be my words.

Daniela Costa, age 17

young voices 2009 7

swallowtailJenny Bonnycastle, age 13

serenitySai Paranjape, age 19

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Mother’s shadow

Bang! Bang! Bang!She disappeared so fastFear is loose in my worldWhen will I get my turn?Until when will I last?No one knows, no one knows howScared I am of dying aloneHolding life by the hand, whenIt cries I shatter, whenIt laughs I soar, whenIt sleeps I meander, but whenIt hurts I watch because I wonderWhat it takes to healFear envelopes meHiding me from what is called realI’m fighting another dayAnother hourAnother minuteAnother secondUntil I can see againSee herPain is my fearEmbrace is my saviourLove is my moralI smile and quiver for I might wake up one day and Lose hold of it, her shadowOh, how we used to trail behind herIn the protection of her memory, her apronNow we try to stop her from staying behindAwaiting for the poignant futureDespite the physical barriersI know I can reach herIf I stick to itWho sticks to herTherefore nothing is ever lost

Kathy Zhang, age 14

the Last Vacation

“We are never going on another family vacation,” said my father.

We’d only just gotten off the plane. I dropped my carry-on bags in exasperation and

waited for my parents’ commands. It was my family’s first visit to Arizona, and probably our last time travelling together out of the country.

“Madison, can you please take that duffle bag?” my father asked in that tone of voice that meant he wasn’t really asking.

“But I already have, like, five thousand other bags to carry!” I whined, holding up my tote bag, my laptop case, my purse, and my heavy winter jacket (it had been

snowing back home in Toronto).“Maybe in Madison World five thousand equals three,

but in the real world, you’re carrying this duffle.”I groaned and rolled my eyes as I reluctantly grasped

the handle of the minivan-sized bag.“What’s in this thing? Is Oliver hiding in the luggage

again?” I asked, referring to my ten-year-old brother.“Okay, now, where’s Baggage Claim?” asked my

directionally-challenged father, ignoring my comment.“I don’t know,” said my mother, “let’s find someone

to ask.”“It’s down that hall and to the left,” I deadpanned.“How do you know?” asked my mother.I pointed to the large sign right above her head.And so the four of us wheeled over to Baggage Claim

and set up camp off to the side so that my father and Dan could hulk our suitcases off the carousel.

After fifteen minutes of no hulking action, we all started to worry.

“Everyone else has their bags!” my father exclaimed, “I bet you anything they lost our luggage.”

“It’s always us,” I muttered, mocking my father’s perpetual pessimism.

“There are a lot of passengers,” said my mother, “they probably haven’t gotten to us yet.”

So we waited some more. And some more. And some more.

Finally, my brother Dan took his headphones off his ears and said, “Hey, uh, we’re not from Mexico, are we?”

We all looked up to see that for the past half hour we’d been waiting for our luggage at the wrong luggage carousel.

“Great,” my dad snarled, going over to harass some attendant.

So embarrassing.

Recovered luggage in hand, we hurried as fast as possible over to customs and got in line behind five million other foreign visitors. My parents were panting, as if they’d just cycled the Tour de France, while Dan listened to his iPod and I checked my watch impatiently.

After what felt like an eternity and a half, we reached the front of the customs line.

“Don’t say a word,” my father hissed. “Where are you coming from?” asked the hapless

customs official—a bald man with a ferret-sized moustache. He had that attitude about him that let you know it would give him sadistic joy to have you deported.

“Toronto, Canada,” said my mother, all frustration and exhaustion gone from her face.

“For how long?” asked the official. “Eight days,” said my mother. “It’s about as long I can

take,” she added with a nervous laugh. The man just looked at her.“Is this your first time in Arizona?” he asked.“Yes,” said my mother.The official examined each of our passports as if he

were studying the Declaration of Independence. He

young voices 2009 9

called out to each of us to make sure that my parents weren’t smuggling us into the country or something. After asking a few more pointless questions, he let us free to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting Arizonans.

Driving away from the airport, my father pulled out the map that had the route to our hotel drawn on it.

“How long until we get to the hotel?” I asked.“About three or so hours,” he said.We reached the highway in five minutes and had

finally found peace of mind when Dan suddenly said, “I have to pee.”

There was a collective sigh from the front of the car.“We are never going on another family vacation,”

said my father.

Rachel Davis, age 16

Another Day

I step out of my dingy apartment to be greeted by an ideaa plan forming in my mindwhile walking to my car I close the door I lean my head against the headrest in frustration or hesitationI’m not sureI direct the car out of the parking lotthrough the stupor in my mindand the haze of my eyesI drive to an unfamiliar placeI shut the door the rain fallsrunning down my cheekweaving unnoticeably with my tearsI am greeted with the strong fragranceof the seaa misty scentwhich would be pleasant on any other dayI gasp for airchoking on the truth of the matterI am a lost causetears blur my vision overflow and run down my faceI glance at my ammunitionquick and painlessI carefully make my wayall the way down the pierI pull out my one-way ticket out of herefirst and last stopnowhereforever lost in the deep sea no one to ever knowwhere did she go?

the object in my hand suddenly feels as thoughit weighs 50 poundswith convulsive hands I load itgoodbye cruel worldcolour me clichécolour me black to fade into the silent nightto blend in with the nothingnessgoodbyeI feel the red hot trigger underneath my fingerI try to pull it but to no availI will myselfpull!but I can’tall strength is lostmy knees buckle my cheek slaps the cold wet planks of woodI weakly prop myself on one elbowsearching for itI look everywhereI must have dropped itinto the cold black watergreatI see a slight change in the lighta shadow, who could that be?I jerk my head upheart stopsThere it is againonly this timeI see it disappear over the railing down below and then nothingI stand up cautiouslyand bring myself closer to the railingand peer over the edgethe dock suddenly vanishes from under my feetthe railing disappearsI feel myself fallingfor hoursand then bitter cold waves I struggle to breathebut the air I craveis substituted with brackish watersmart in my eyes and earsI open my eyes to darknesspanic invades meI flail my armsin a feeble attempt to break my head above the waterpressing in on me from every anglesomething lands in my handa bulletconfusedI look up and see a shadowI try to get closer to the surface and succeedthe silhouette materializes

10 young voices 2009

it is MEwait!what?I need to stop hermeI fight against the frigid waterspulling me down with a vengeanceshe I must not fall and dropped the guninto the wateris this another scenario to how I go?or the scenario to how I die?I see her position it to her heartno stop!I close my eyes waiting for the gunshot with bated breatha screama sharp intake of breaththen…silenceconfusion seizes me again as I open my eyes to my dingy apartmentI sit up and look aroundand I see the gun and bullets on my dresserready and waiting for tonightperhaps I will stay another dayfor there will always be a bullet

Ellisia Zografos, age 13

Dreaming

I stood over him, heart thudding, a nervous shaking to my fingers. Everything else was silent, except for the deep and relaxed breathing of those sleeping. Surely they could hear my heart hammering inside my breast! Even if they could, they paid no attention, their faces vulnerable and angelic with sleep.

His hair was fairly long, dark, messy, arranged haphazardly on his pillow. His long, thin arms were folded over his pale blue blankets, which were pulled up to his shoulders. A slight smile was playing across his plump lips, as if he knew something that nobody else did.

I slipped my hand into my leather messenger bag, which was black so as to hide in the darkness. I rummaged around, my fingers feeling around for the object I sought. There it was. My fingers curled around it. It was a cylindrical glass bottle, about two inches long, and the top was sealed with an old piece of cork. The bottle itself was unremarkable, but its contents were what interested me. Dreams.

I pulled the stopper out, letting a small stream of golden powder snake onto my palm. There. Carefully, so as to not spill any, I closed the bottle, dropping it into my bag. I took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for what I was about to do.

It was my first time, and they are always the worst. There were select few who got the job of distributing dreams, and it was an extremely sought-after position. I had received it thanks to my agility and quick reflexes, among other things. My wings flapped quickly and sharply, but quietly — the bright colours blurring together.

At last I had mustered enough confidence to lean over his face, letting a few grains drop out of my fist, onto his cheek. I let the powder flow more freely, covering his lips, his chin, his forehead and his eyelids. The gold had found its way into all the cracks and crevices of his face, settling on his thick lashes, between his nose and his lips. It covered the valleys and mountains of his features, until his face shone with radiance. I flew back down to the wooden floor, my brown hair behind my ears in an effort to keep it out of my face.

“Now I wait,” I muttered to myself.It came faster than I thought.Suddenly, his eyes fluttered open, the bright green a

contrast to the shadowy light of the room. A second later, his eyelids slammed shut just as quickly. Next the powder pulsed a strange light, before turning into liquid, and melting into his face. There was no evidence of the dream powder, and he looked exactly as he had before.

Except for images flickering under his eyelids.I stared dumbfounded, eyes wide, and would

probably have stayed there had the sunlight not started struggling to get through the cracks in his blinds. It was time to go. I looked once more at my first dream receiver, before flapping my fragile wings and flying away.

Sara Vladusic, age 14

young voices 2009 11

I would like to thank the many identities I’ve had in this dynastyHillary Chan, age 15


allegany county

got married under an orange speckled skywith distant relatives from hereand some from thereif we looked closely the places they were frommade the patternof the Orion’s beltyour favorite one of allbecause it lookedlike a robotdoingthe robot

months passed and we ate our flatbreadcovered in seeds from Indiaor is it ChinaI forgetwhat the package says anywayssome seedswere stuck between the tile floorif we left them there long enoughmaybe we’d get micewe could breed them, Johnand have somethingto talk about

for once.

Yael Citron, age 17

Mia, My Doll

I was but two years old,when I first saw her.She was sitting,lifelessly on a shelf.

Soft pine green eyes;long auburn hair.She wore a lacy red dresswith shoes made of glass.

“I want her mamma!”I gushed,as the store clerk handed the doll to me.

Her slender porcelain cheekbones,appeared to colour, as her scarlet painted lips,smiled hauntingly at me.

I looked at herin my arms.I smiled,“Mia.”

We played,had tea parties and dances,and through the years,she became my best friend.

And all those timesher eyes seemed to befull of life;content.

We stopped playingas I grew older.I placed Mia,upon my shelf.

I left the room,and turned back,as I closed the door.She looked miserable.

She sat on the shelffor many years.Staring defiantly at me;livid, every time I left her.

Then one night,I heard a noise,and looked up to find herturn her head to me.

She stood up,shifted her cold eyes,and fixed them on me.She opened her mouth.

“Dolls are made,To brighten a child’s life,To play withfor an eternity of time.”

She appeared, at the foot of my bed,and glared acrossat me.

“We watch you grow older,and our hearts shrinkas your cold looksshun us.”


Her raspy voice,was awfully beautiful,and pulled me towards her.

Mia drew her hand out of the pocket of her dress,and brought out a small needleas sharp as a knife.

“You abandoned me,left me,to age awayALONE.”

A tear slipped down my face,as I grabbed the lamp near me.I looked at herfor the last time.

“I’m so sorry Mia.”I took the lamp and hit heras she lunged at mewith the needle.

“NOOOOOO!”She cried in despair.She fell in piecesin front of me.

“You were my friend,since forever;my everything,but you didn’t realize.”

I stared silently,at the broken porcelain,and watched as theyclinked softly together finally resting.

“I stopped spending timewith you,but I never stoppedloving you.”

And as those wordsspilled from my mouththe broken pieces of Mia’s eyesshed tears.

Mithila Rajavel, age 16

the Beginning

Death is undoubtedly a daunting and merciless word. It is filled with relentless ambiguity and a vast amount of spectacular paradoxical ideas. You would think it would be easy for them to mark with red the cigarette that killed you so that you would not smoke it. Or the drink that does you in with a label cautioning you not to swallow. Perhaps, you swallow anyways. You swallow for that primal need which is buried deep within everyone’s subconscious: the need of human contact. For another individual to reach out and tell you “this is real.” And this is where the lines between death and love blur — how far will you go for that connection? I can feel your eyes on these words as I write each one. I know you read them. I write this for you, to clarify the perplexity between love and death. You are my dark cloud that lets me gaze at the sun. You are different. Something about you stands out. Something about you shines in the dusk. You will change the world. I can feel it in my bones, my skin, and my tongue. My fingers. I have so much faith in you. Once, years ago, I looked up by mistake and fell into your eyes. I’m still falling. Sometimes, it feels like flying. You had flown away with your sturdy wings, years earlier. I never thought I would ever see you. But you came back. You asked me if I’d still have you, with your old wings and silver hair. It wasn’t age that I saw in that moment standing there with you. It was timelessness. Your wings needed mending. I sat there all night with sticky-tape, glue, needle and thread, string, and old newspapers. The sun came up but still, nothing worked. You needed to fix them yourself. You thanked me for trying and told me because I’d tried, you’d be willing to try too. And now, I can pick you up and swear that you will taste the sky again. Every time you picked up the poison and ended your life a little bit more, you were stealing from them. These people who would love you. They will give you a feeling greater than any poison ever could. Don’t steal from them. Every cut. Every tear. Every time. You don’t know it, but I feel it too. Please don’t hurt me. Now, the dreams are real. The magic is real. The angels are real. Guiding your hand. Touching your heart. Whispering in your ear. You can change your mind in an instant. Changing a heart, however, will take a lifetime. You may call this life whatever you wish to call it: an adventure, challenge, or a call to arms. We will call it history. All the greatest success stories start in failure. Otherwise they wouldn’t be success stories. You can make this the end. Or you can make it the beginning.

I love you with all of my heart.

Jennifer Lamb, age 17


A Cat’s MeowLinda Du, age 13


Somewhere in the vast, swirling, swooshing vestiges of my mind, there was an image of something I never understood. I can’t even tell you what I saw deep in that place, that place I can only sanely explain as a dark room. There was only one time I ever managed to consciously walk in and view it. It was colourful, so beautiful and bright; the light seemed to shine around it like a halo from heaven. It whispered to me, told me of great lullabies and prayers, secrets and masterpieces. When I reached out to touch it, it bounced away, full of life, laughing its silent, shrill laugh. It dashed away from me, keeping its giggling high in the octaves, never making a sound. I chased it down a long corridor, pacing with it best I could, throwing my arms out at every chance that came. I wanted to trap it, encase it within my core; not hidden away in this dark, dead place anymore. I needed it, without it I would be nothing. I was sure of it; this glowing orb of cream and blue paint made up my existence.

There was one moment, where the end of my middle finger brushed its side, and for that moment I felt light curl up my arm and into my heart. The most beautiful, unimaginable things flew through my eyes, things that cannot be explained by human tongue. I saw life and colour, death and blackness, lords and leaders, grass and wood, paper and patience. As each image passed me, I tried to grab it, but they moved oh so quickly; every one evading my grasp. It became so flustered and rushed that the wonder was nearly replaced by pain. I waited for it to end, for there to be nothing but wisps and whirls left, but it didn’t stop. It became greater and greater, till there was nothing but a blur, colours of red and orange shooting by, blended together as if someone had smudged them over with their finger. Then there was suddenly a single image lingered behind the others, sat there, waiting for me to retrieve it. I grabbed it, and it was all I ever managed to hold on to from that dark room.

Alena Bozic, age 14

Gift

A box.With a bow.A colourful box with a bow.A pair of socks are enclosed in this box.This is your gift to me.I slip these socks on my feetAnd walk on them all day,As you do to me.

Janel Halenko, age 15

I’m not saying that out Loud

I can feel it. The lost remnants of yesterday. The echoes of forgotten promises will dissipate before they reach my ears. Memories run their fingertips along my skin. Barely a whisper, a light breeze trailing across my body. He still gives me chills. Playing the sweet song of reminiscence. Existence. It taunts me. His very being penetrates the bitter truth into recognition. His lips part as the words slip out, quenching my thirst. I drink it all down. Pressing up against him, his flowing rhythm gets me so drunk. I want it. The memories. Nostalgia. The times. Sunshine slipping through the cracks of an ancient heart. Hoping tomorrow will bring me salvation. I want to know him again. Know him inside and out. I can feel it fading. I try to grasp what is left. It escapes between my fingers. I cannot contain it. I want to. I want to! I want to be. The seed of inspiration, his recollection of reality yet his only fantasy. Remember me? Remember me.

Meagan Cacheiro-LeMay, age 17

the Five Hundred Million and nine Dozen

The tumbling snow falls from day to dayWith each flake special in its own wayCrashing and freezing without a sound.

The machinery in the clouds rise tall and greyTowers of steel all painted grey,Beneath which we grab our capsAnd go, hurrying from a breakfast-table napOr from staring at the snow outside.

I have found little moulds of clayScattered in the snow, as pale sickly as the skyOnce or twice.

We are all suitors at Penelope’s doorWe are all knocking at Penelope’s doorBegging and cursing until we are strung up high.

I blew the moulds off my tonguePeeled and carved them off my tongue-- (they pinned my tongue to the roof:Who dares speak ill of snowflakes?How dare you tell this lie?)

But suppose they really were dropped byCareless angels under no wary eyeHow each suitor looks the same.

And beneath such an engine how could IBeneath cold smelters how could ILet it be known


That each snowflake is really the same,Made from moulds of dirty white clayLike you, lying between the hammer and the anvil(between the knife and the baking panOf your mother’s kitchen when you were six),Between your children’s rage and your parents’ love,Between hell below and blinding angels above

Please stop dropping the moulds, number 42.

You take each hit in stride, thinking you have escapedThe cruel and perfect symmetry;You take all the blame in stride, thinking maybe you won’t turn outAt all, no, not at all.

And when you feel the bumps and the dents, the tears and the rents,Scratches along your back and rust around your eyes,Chips off your teeth, a knob in your leg, Struts bound to ankles and screws in your knees,A forgotten wing nut in your heart,An undone joint, oh how it bleeds

(A leak somewhere in the piping of your skullA leak in the pipe through your nose and the corners of your eyes).

You find your weeping cracked image in the other eight dozen and eleven.

The line is running, sir, running perfectly.

It snows, it snows. How your tragedy shows.

It snowed in the morning I took my breakfast-table napIt snowed in mourning, it snowed for thee.

Helen Zhang, age 17

the exorcism

I am somewhere between awake and sleeping.At times, I am acutely aware of my surroundings.

At other times, I feel like I am skimming the surface of consciousness, close to falling into its dark depths. My vision and my thoughts are hazy, as though I am seeing and thinking through a foggy window. My movements are frustratingly slow and silent, like a dreamer’s. Sunlight is much too bright; it blinds me to the point of pain. That is why I prefer the curtains closed; if only the Others would not always open them.

The Others are trespassers. Invaders. They treat my house as if it were their own. I have tried to ignore them as they ignore me, but my temper has been quick of late.

I reach the bottom of the step and there the Others are, waiting for me. And they have brought a guest: a short, elderly woman with her grey hair held in a tight bun that squats on her head. Fury rises like a wave of heat through my body; it boils my blood and burns in my heart. How dare they bring a guest into my home when they are guests themselves? She is unwelcome. They are all unwelcome!

My rage shakes the house, overturning tables and chairs and rattling windows in their panes. I see fear in the Others’ eyes and for once I feel truly awake. I feel alive. Their fear fuels my passion and I want to hurt them, punish them for what they have done.

Elizabeth.Hearing my name startles me. The house falls silent in

my shock. I haven’t heard it in so long, not since Mother and Father...

What happened to Mother and Father?I look to the old woman. Her eyes are closed.

Concentration is written into the wrinkles of her skin. It is her voice I am hearing in my head.

She tells me that I am dead.Dead? Dead. Dead, dead, dead. The word does not

seem right. How could I be dead?Even as I ask myself, the memories return to me.

I remember the thieves that broke into our home, demanding money and jewellery. I remember the warm sensation of tears running down my cheeks and the cold sensation of fear clenched like a fist in my chest. And I remember the blade of an axe, swinging in an arc for my head.

I am dead.She tells me that I must leave. I must let go. This house

that I thought was a comfort has now become a trap. It is time for me to escape.

I look to the window. The sunlight that seemed harsh just a moment ago, now feels welcoming. Basking in its glow is like sinking into a hot bath. I try to see past the light, to what lies beyond, but it is too bright.

Mother, Father, I am coming home at last.

Tiffany Chan, age 15


I Hand You My HeartLidia Hatif, age 17


Am I Ben the Bunny?Aimee He, age 12


Dust

”For dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return.” –Genesis

On a Friday afternoonin the kitchen, you weredrinking a bottle of beerwhen you noticed that the beer tasted dustyand that your mouth was crumbling into dust,followed by your neck,your legs,your feet.Within seconds, you were but a mound of duston the kitchen floor.

That night,your mother swept you into the dustpan, gripped firmly by your wife.Your son opened the door for his motherwho stepped into the backyardand fed you to the wildflowers.You made great compost.The flowers grew so tallyour wife now lies in a hammock and reads paperbacksin her own Garden of Eden.

Ira Halpern, age 14

Dance

Polite smiles and makeupAre pasted on everybody’s facesBeautiful gowns of an immense array of coloursAre illuminated by the sleek dark suits of the menLike obedient lambs, we all assemble in the shadows,Waiting.

Every single one of us dances To someone else’s tuneOnce the music beginsWe all flock to this dance floor called Life.Like a butterfly crawling out of its cocoonWe burst into existence with lively vigour

We twirl and laugh and sing along with one anotherSwitching partners and gowns every so often,Dancing recklessly.Where are we? Is it almost over? Are we safe?We don’t know until one of us plunges into oblivion.But then, it’s too late.

The music speeds upWe accommodate and hasten our pace as well

Until everyone is just a blur of colourThe world is spinning and you can’t keep focus.And then, it stops. One by one, we tire. We collapse. We die.

New dancers will replace usAnd they’ll dance.

Elaine Yang, age 15

Fifty sad Chairs

I have been degraded to this. My beautiful upholstery, once luxurious and proud, now rests between shredded and worn thin. I am musty with age and the odours of the various foods dropped on me are omnipresent. My mahogany armrests and legs, once so carefully polished, are now dusty and bear stains. No one bothers to wipe them off. My springs groan as I welcome a new guest, creak with relief when they leave. I tell of screaming children and of tender conversations by the fire to anyone who will sit and listen.

Louisville, Kentucky, April 1932I am a surprise wedding gift, from husband to wife.

A garishly bright pink bow is looped over my backrest. I wait in anticipation in the back of a rusty pickup truck. Vague shadows dance on the canvas covering me. Suddenly, the canvas is thrown off by eager hands. The sky is blue; no clouds. A slight breeze stirs the leaves on the trees. A muffled cry of delight. The smells of soap and jasmine fill the air as the young lady rushes to sit down.

“Oh, James, I love it. But are you sure we can afford it?” Her voice falters and she crashes back down to earth, remembering their dismal financial situation. What had started as a sudden collapse in the stock market over two years ago had grown into an international fiasco. The newlyweds, who had dreamt of being married in a huge church, surrounded by all of their friends and relatives, had said their vows in the chapel down by the river, with only their immediate family and two best friends there to witness the happiest day of their lives. But happy it was. The sun was shining, the air smelled fresh and new and no one who saw the blissful couple’s faces could argue that they, at that moment lacked anything. But now, the honeymoon period was over, and reality began to creep back into their daily lives, like an unwanted houseguest. Don’t ask how I know this, I’m only a chair.

Louisville, Kentucky, February 1933Their first child, Jamie, named after his father, cries

in the new mother’s tired arms. She holds the screaming babe, cautiously, delicately, still unsure of herself. His father watches from the doorway. Long days at the


factory have given him a grey pallor, unsuited to him as a vicious snarl on the face of a little girl. The screaming stops. He’s asleep. She looks up, searching. They lock eyes. A smile, albeit an exhausted one, coaxed up by one simply for the enjoyment of the other, passes between them.

He knows something that she doesn’t. He is hiding it from her. It concerns the bills and the house payments that had crept up so quietly during the last few months that had since become a clamouring babble, demanding to be heard. Yes, he hides it well. So he’ll sell some more of his late mother’s jewellery, there’s no need to worry her. But I’m worried, and I’m just a chair.

Louisville, Kentucky, September 1941He’s eight now, little Jamie. He sits, arms crossed;

stiff. He methodically picks at loose threads on my right armrest. Pain for pain, I guess. “A man does not show weakness,” his father had told him. And he was to be man of the house now. He’d have to look after his mother and Meg, his four-year-old sister. His father stands by the door. He holds Meg in one arm and a duffle bag in his other hand. His wife clings to him. He is speaking softly to her, but he watches his son.

“Come, Jamie, aren’t you going to come and say goodbye? We...” His mother’s voice breaks. “We might not see Daddy for a while.” The boy rises. He says his goodbyes. He does not meet his father’s eyes. He wouldn’t be able to hide it if he did. He knows all about the war and of the fighting. He knows that his father may not come back whole, or at all. But men don’t show weakness.

Neither do chairs.

Louisville, Kentucky, August 1945“He’s back!” A cry rings though the house. The voice

is tired. It has been, for the past four years. Between worrying, working long days at the munitions factory, and more worrying, times of joy had been few and far between. But now, this same voice is now filled with joyous disbelief. “Meg, Jamie! Your father is home!” Footsteps thunder down the steps. A boy’s shout and a girl’s squeal add to the cacophony. All three arrive at the door. It’s flung open. Their faces fall. There is a man on the doorstep, but it is not the man they remember as their father, or her husband. That man was strong, and invincible. This man is wearing a ragged army uniform, but the buckles and buttons are polished to shine the pride of the nation. His hair is unkempt. Three days without shaving conceal his hollow cheeks and sharp features. Their gaze falls to his right arm, the sleeve of his uniform newly sewn just above the elbow.

“Who’s that?” Meg’s high voice breaks the tense moment.

The man reaches down, as if to pick her up, but then he remembers and doesn’t. Instead, he bends down to look her in the eye. “It’s me. It’s Daddy.”

“Hello Father,” Jamie says. The four years have

matured him. He speaks with the authority of years he does not have. He reaches to shake his father’s hand. He lowers it as he realizes his mistake. An embarrassing pause follows.

“James, your arm…” The obvious is finally mentioned. He pushes past them, and starts climbing the staircase. Each thud is like a nail, binding them. He stops, near the top.

“My arm is nothing. Nothing compared to all of the things, the atrocities…that I’ve seen happen to better men.” He turns and disappears onto the second floor.

They stand there, looking up after him, for a long time. They don’t move. I don’t either.

Louisville, Kentucky, November 1945The fights are more frequent now. He spends hours at a time in the study, sitting at the

empty desk, staring into space. He is more reserved, but breaks out in anger at any mention of the war. His wife is an annoyance, always buzzing at his elbow, trying to get him to do something productive. She has turned his children against him. They will not be alone with him for more than a few nervous minutes. He should feel lucky, after all, he’s alive. He tells himself this every day, yet he can’t seem to feel any gratitude whatsoever. He can’t be thankful that he only lost an arm.

Where’s the man I married? she asks herself. She knows he’s in there. She visits him in the study, to no avail. The stranger who came home is still sitting there in her husband’s study, wearing her husband’s clothes, and looking just like him – minus one arm.

The first time he hit her she collapsed onto me and cried. It’s funny, but not in the ha-ha sense. She cries for the husband who gave his wife a beautiful chair for a wedding gift. Symbolic-like. He went back to his study. Jamie came with ice, and held it to his mother’s cheek. The bruise was already beginning to show. She won’t be able to hide it. Luckily, chairs don’t bruise.

Once he discovers that they’re gone, he takes his anger out on the only reminder of happier times, of a marriage that was happy and thriving. He attacks me. First he uses his boots, then a knife, and then he finds the axe. He carries me out to the alley and leaves. So now I’m sitting out here. Alone. Someone passing by might wonder how I came to be so destroyed. My story is their story. Such is the nature of a chair. But it is not yet over.

They left him; they departed in the middle of the night with only their dearest possessions. Everything else can be replaced. Jamie, now fifteen, is old enough to help support his mother and his eleven-year-old sister. They will live with her mother, in the next town. It won’t be easy, but they will be fine. She does not cry anymore. Jamie is feeling fierce and protective. This is an adventure in which he will be the hero. Meg cries, not for her father, but for a forgotten diary.

No one cries for a forgotten chair.

Rebecca Chang, age 16


our GenerationBrian Ho, age 16


street of VietnamJohnson Huang, age 15


Rape

Lone smile of a vivid rose

Silent blossom in which thee hold

Pledging with delight I await

Yet aging flux doth not betray

Timid grim sheaths below

Until thirst once driven me craze

Owing my lust, red pedals enclose

Shameless intent, the goddesses evoke

Though disgraces embark

Shall sinful tale of love be told

Jackson Ji, age 18

Dear Facebook,

Today I am boredSo,

I will change my status a million times.“Katrina Dickson is bored”“Katrina Dickson is still bored”“Katrina Dickson is wondering why she is so bored”I will look at everyone’s profiles and write back and

forth on all of their walls but I never talk to them in person.

I will change my relationship status to “single” and wait for how many people write on my wall saying this “OMG you guys broke up :(“

I will tag my self in photos I am not in.I will write on my own wall just to get the e-mail

saying “Katrina has written on your wall.”

Today Facebook,I will look up my enemies and start a poking war. I will join groups about how much I hate facebook,

only to return to you oh facebook how I crave you.I will create numerous groups about nothing.I will start a fight over facebook just to say...I can’t

believe this started over facebook.When people ask me where I saw, read, heard it

from... I will say Facebook.

Dear Facebook,You are my stalker.

Katrina Dickson, age 19

the Unknown student

She was born on the morning of April 3rd,Perhaps it was sunny. She started kindergarten at the age of six,Perhaps she had fun. She failed her first EQAO test,Perhaps she had tried hard.She skipped all her immunization shots,Perhaps she was scared of needles. She became a citizen before Gr.6 graduation,Perhaps she was proud.She failed four subjects in Gr.7,Perhaps she cried herself to sleep.She transferred to another school in Gr.8,Perhaps she was relieved. She started cutting school in Gr.9,Perhaps she was depressed.She talked to the guidance counsellor several times,Perhaps she felt insignificant.She failed Gr.10 and got left back one year,Perhaps she was ashamed.She dropped out of school in Gr.11, the only one in her year to not graduate,Perhaps she felt guilty.Perhaps she’s different now.Perhaps she’s content now.But what does that matter?What does “perhaps” matter, when her school file clearly states that she was a failure?

Anna Jiang, age 13


nothing Comes to Mind

If I wrote you a melody with notes soft as the clouds in the sky, sweet as candy and an ending of eternity, would you write me a lecture about how clouds are masses of frozen crystals, candy rots your teeth and reality?

It’s witching hour and the world is still but if I squint, the city lights seem to shimmer like stars. I think that angels created lights because it’s a reminder of the cobwebbed dreams from childhood for those that see them. Tonight the stars are extra orange and extra bright and I know that the angels are our own personal cheerleading squad. (I thought about calling you but you would reply with, “If angels wanted us together, would they have you imagining stars?” I don’t know how to answer that.)

I turn on the radio but all there was is static, broken and fuzzy like that one time I pressed a seashell by my ear and heard the ocean cry. You took it from my hands, shook your head and patiently said in a voice you usually reserved for children, imbeciles and me, that seashells resonate noises around you which makes them sound like the ocean.

“The sea just wants to be loved,” I stubbornly pointed out.

“Like you?”“Like me.” “Maybe you should go and drown. Maybe you could

be the substitute.”“You’re never the substitute. You are the first.” I

think that was the first and only time you were truly speechless. (You’re like the billions of people in the world who want the last word. See? You’re not special. I’m not special. That’s why our love story is the kind that girls hate and boys rip.)

You called me a textbook case of idealism. I laughed and said I’m the textbook case of blowing dandelions, boarding random midnight trains and feet with striped stockings dangling in the air.

You frowned and said that’s what idealism means.“No,” I corrected. “Idealism is wishful thinking.”“Well, you and me is wishful thinking isn’t it?”“That can be achieved through hard work. That’s why

I’m an idealist realist. You’re a realist idealist.”“That makes no sense.”“It doesn’t have to.”“But it needs to.”That was the last time we talked. After that, you

stuffed your nose into another book, I danced in the rain and people stared. (They wonder why you put up with me and I wonder if they know that I keep my fingers crossed that you would—at least for another day.)

It’s witching hour and it’s late. I go to bed listening to the radio static.

(You once told me that I needed another kind of love, not one that crashes and burns; the kind that finds meaning in radio static, live fairytale endings and has no

need for cobwebbed dreams because you had each other.I snorted. You obviously didn’t hear me the first

couple of times.I love you.)

Nong Li, age 14

I Am Ready to Perform

I sit on the bench outside the principal’s office. I have already waited for twenty minutes for him to call me in. Apparently, the principal thinks that my attitude problem can wait; my teacher does not.

“Dear, the essay was due today,” she had said, pointedly slowing her words.

“Do you think I care?” I had replied. She was taken aback, but continued. “Why did you

not write the essay?” She then raised her voice so the rest of the class could hear. “Is there something going on at home?”

“Yes, I bully my parents into giving me five dollars every week.” The teacher did not find my clever remark entertaining. I have diagnosed her to have a lack of humour.

She was not deterred, and persisted. “Dear, did you forget to do the essay? You should have been,” she paused for dramatic effect, “responsible.”

I hate patronizing people. “I’ll be responsible when you realize that essays waste paper and kill trees. That intensifies global warming, and despite your beliefs expressed in yesterday’s seminar, it is real. Then we will all die when the elephants take over to save the environment.” She then demanded that I go to the principal’s office.

And here I am, waiting for the principal to call me in so that we can discuss my attitude problem. I wonder what will happen. I am a great actor, and situational improvisation is my forte. I shall make a long speech about why I am the real victim in this situation, climaxing in a fit of indecipherable shrieks.

I can imagine myself towering over the principal as he cowers in the corner, telling him of how the teacher has emotionally abused me since the beginning of the year. If he gives me detention or suspends me, I will dramatically break into tears. I will make up a lie about my parents getting a divorce, my best friend moving away, or that I didn’t make the soccer team.

I begin to laugh to myself as I formulate more clever plans. I’ve already written the script in my mind, and I am ready to perform.

The door opens, and the principal, a stocky bald man, ushers me into his office. I crack my knuckles as I walk in. This will be fun.

Alexander De Pompa, age 14


setting sunAnjali Kugathas, age 15


ode to My eraser

I had an eraser.It fit between my thumb and fingerLike a puzzle pieceConnecting with the others around it.In my hands,It did what I could not:Go back in time.Ugly mistakes vanished where it travelled,Never to be seen again.Astonishing rubber, performing magic tricks.An entertainer asking for applause.Colourful and fierce; full of purpose,Determined to bend over backwards To make it all betterLike a selfless mother to her child.A heroWho swooped in during times of need with flexible muscles,Rescuing princesses,Throwing away the scratches.It fought courageous battles,Against wooden sticks.A knight in shining armour,Cleaning up the mess.

I had an eraser.It was weak,Unable to survive the punches from its only friend.So gullible that it agreed to die,Cruelly given up for sacrifice Like a lamb on the slaughter.Taken advantage of,Being used line after line, word after word.It became tinierAnd tinier.A snowball melting into a useless puddle.

I had an eraser.It once rushed in to save the dayOne blunder at a time.A deceitful little object,Here one moment, gone the next.It seems that things are trulyNot what they appear to be.

Jennifer Wong, age 17

the Wonders of technology (and that dead man lying on the street)

It’s Friday night, a night begging to be wasted learning absolutely nothing just like any other Friday night. So needless to say, you’re happily chatting on MSN with your friends, crushes, and strangers…when all of a sudden the screen goes black and all you’re left with is a mess of wires and RAM and ROM and motherboard and whatnot uselessly lying inside an awkwardly humming monitor. The first thought that crosses your mind is: Oh crap, I promised my friends I’d be right back. The second thing that crosses your mind is: Damn, I’m hungry.

So what do you do? You go downstairs to the fridge and grab an apple. As all the nutrition and proteins and goodness that are supposed to be in apples makes its long voyage to your brain, something begins to dawn on you. The third and most important thought that crosses your mind is: OH SHIT. THERE’S $1,000 WORTH OF USELESS WIRES AND RAM AND ROM AND MOTHERBOARD SITTING IN MY BEDROOM.

Now, the sensible thing to do would be to start writing your will. Instead, you finish munching on the apple and try to restart the computer. Nothing happens. But no worries, because being the genius that you are in technology, you bend down on your knees and start unplugging stuff. The light on the modem gives a last faint flicker and then dies. Oops.

Okay, now enter panic mode. Remember all that stuff they taught you in phys. ed. about CPR and saving a life? Well, your computer needs saving, and CPR definitely isn’t working. How come they never teach any useful stuff anyway, like saving a technological masterpiece of the 21st century? I mean, seriously, who actually meets a half dead person lying in the middle of an empty street in broad daylight in this country (considering there really aren’t that many Canadians to begin with, alive or dead)? And if you meet this supposed unconscious victim in a dark alley at night, should you really be doing mouth to mouth life saving procedures on a stranger who can very possibly pull out a knife at any second and stab you in the back (literally)? And then how the heck are you supposed to perform CPR on yourself?

What you should do now is just go back to eating and pretend you never saw anything happen… to your computer, to that half dead man on the ground, or otherwise. But sadly, you’ve spent the past sixteen years nursing your proud ego, and you’re not about to let it all go to waste. So with your last ounce of strength you use your IQ power of 130 to think of the most intelligent and cunning phrase that ever came out of your mouth: “DAD! BRO BROKE THE COMPUTER!!!”

Roni Luo, age 16


Breath

How many puffs of air do we breathe in a lifetime?What number do we possibly inhale?Of the millions of breezes that fill the skyAnd the continuous hale of air

The thousands of airs afloat the skies, and the many moreBut why when the winds blow, we only breathe the heavensYet all we praise is the skies aboveAnd all despite, deep inside, of our breezy dwellings

Now I saw, I can see, what has not been seenNearly close, and barely far from what I feel,So as it moves swiftly, and flies loftily,My life seems real...

And now I turn and before my eyes, the winds getting chillThe graceful impact and sorrowing pain that sheared my soulAnd the wretched burn, at my sudden turn,The one that split me whole.. Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the number of moments that take our breath away—And so I’m left, short of breath, with that heavy feeling in my chest, in sorrow and dismay

Emmanuel Appiah, age 13

“I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,I sought it daily for six weeks or so.Maybe at last, being but a broken man,I must be satisfied with my heart.” –Yeats, ‘The Circus Animals’ Desertion’

As a child, I dreamed of time travel. Authors like H.G. Wells inspired me — they seemed to share my fascination with experiencing a different time and place. And then it happened. I was eight years old when I acted in my first drama production. It was 45 minutes long, and truly awful. But it was too late — I had fallen in love with acting!

Why acting? For me, acting is a means of time travel in a metaphorical and broader sense. It allows me to experience thoughts, actions, and emotions far beyond the reach of my eighteen-year-old self. It liberates me from being the responsible, sensible person that I present to the world in my daily life, and allows me to explore my innermost thoughts and feelings through the medium of my stage persona. The mundane, everyday world around me dissolves and crystallizes into a new and exciting space.

At the risk of oversimplification, you might even say that the stage has taught me much of what I know about life. Consider my work experience — I toiled tirelessly for years as a nurse in the home of an aristocratic British family. And before that I worked in a milliner’s shop making hats. My family could barely afford a turkey on Christmas, but we loved each other dearly, and that made up for what we lacked in material things.

Leadership? Of course! I was the head of my household and an elder in my village, located on a desolate island in the Caribbean. While the locals told tales that began with the words “Once upon an island,” I safeguarded my people against the moral laxity of the European settlers.

Have I ever taken a risk? Well, I passed myself off as a Lady at the Embassy Ball in London despite the efforts of a Hungarian phonetics expert to expose me as a fraud.

What about adversity? I have encountered it and prevailed over it. At one point in my life, I was an unfortunate villager in a small shtetl in Russia named Anatevka. We lived in fear for our lives since the Cossacks used to come and attack us for sport. Eventually, I fled the shtetl, but the image of the lone fiddler, pouring out his soul on the rooftops of Anatevka, has engraved itself in my psyche forever. (Inspired by roles I played in Peter Pan; A Christmas Carol; Once on an Island; Pygmalion; and Fiddler on the Roof.)

Please don’t think of me as a fanciful liar. I have truly experienced all of these things. You see, there are two kinds of people on this planet: those who confine themselves to the concrete, actual events of their own lives, and those who let their imaginations take them to faraway places. For better or worse, I count myself among the latter. If this is my hubris, I accept the consequences.

Hayley Ossip, age 18


Voice

Through the madness, through the darkness,I felt her hand on my hair, I heard her voice,Strong.

Louder than all the others. A beacon, a direction, safely there with them. A light.

They held my arms tightly but gently, kindly, so that I knew that they loved me secretly within.

Then suddenly mayhem, buzzing, pounding, crashing together, ripping apart.

Anger, impulse, frustration.

Why is it all so unfair?

Screaming and shouting: Where’s the way out?

Help me. End this. Why can’t you hear me?

I’m alone. I must stop it. Hurt somewhere else to take away the pain inside.

Ripping, gripping. For life. For my tears. Rising, rising, closer, closer, OUT! GET OUT! Flash…..pain….calm.

Then dull sadness, tears and the “help me’s”. Her hand reaches for me and I can hear her voice, calming and loving and earnest.

Her hand is on my head. Her hand is on my hand.Locked connection.

She helps me rise out of the darkness of the deep so that I can breathe again and be rocked back and forth by the undulation of the waves.

Laura Sabia, age 16

Koalas and Kangaroos

I collect pens. Not just your average everyday pens, but pens with bright colours and bobbles on the end; pens with flare, colour and jazz.

I first developed an interest in pens when I was seven, when a new boy moved into our suburban neighbourhood. A boy with long, orange hair, who wore all hemp clothing and had an obsession with fish. His name was Xavier.

Xavier and I quickly became best friends. I have a bit of a lisp (which is really great when your name is Timothy). Xavier was the only person who was ever able

to look past my lisp. He told me that my lisp was “cute.” Xavier was different than anyone I had ever known

in my small, suburban world. He gave me lectures on the importance of eating local produce, was a vegan, had a vegetable garden where he grew his own certified organic foods and had over twenty-three books on tropical fish (no real fish, of course, because that would be inhumane).

However, none of these interests compared to Xavier’s obsession with pens. Xavier had over 2,500 pens: ballpoints, fountain pens, roller balls, fiber tips, and gels. He liked the way they looked, he liked watching the flow of the ink to the paper and he liked the designs he could make with them. Xavier loved poetry and was constantly with pen and paper (his favorite poet was Yeats). Every week, Xavier would buy a new pen that represented a new place where he had been or something new he had accomplished. In his collection, he had pens from Mozambique and India and pens that said: “I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro” and “I love Sailing.” Xavier’s favourite was a pen from Australia. It was gold, with little koalas and kangaroos painted all over it. Once he told me that it was his favourite because the kangaroos and koalas were smiling and getting along — something that would never happen in the wild. I was fascinated by Xavier’s pen collection. He had a special room where they were all lined up: pens in display cases, the little one from Australia in its own glass case with the velvet lining.

Xavier was home schooled until he turned nine. Some people thought that was weird. My father said, “I’m glad that boy is going to school. They’ll knock some sense into him. Get rid of that save the earth crap and stop him from collecting those freaky pens!” However, what my father didn’t know was that Xavier wanted to go to school so that he could convert everyone to veganism and teach the other kids in Grade 4 how to grow their own organic gardens.

“It’ll be great,” Xavier said eagerly on the first day. “I already love school!” His mother, Sophia, had packed organic sprout and walnut salad for his lunch, and in his backpack, Xavier had tucked his favourite book on tropical fish.

Unfortunately, school wasn’t easy for Xavier. His preaching was ignored — and laughed at. It didn’t help that Frank, the most popular boy at school, decided to make Xavier his personal punching bag. Frank would call out witty remarks like, “Hey Goldfish!” and, “Hey, Xavier — got a pen?” Frank thought he was hilarious.

School was really hard for Xavier, but he didn’t mind. For three years, he just ignored the names, pushes and kicks and just kept on trying (his pen collection doubled). As for me, I just stood by and watched Xavier get punched. Whenever it was safe, I would eat lunch with him.

One day in the fall of Grade 7, after an especially hard day of name calling and a few punches courtesy of Frank, Xavier asked me if I wanted to go with him to a really great place. It was a cool, clear, perfect September


afternoon. I jumped at the chance for an adventure with Xavier away from the dangers of school.

We rode our bikes for an hour, along the paths of the abandoned rail lines until we reached the escarpment, at the bottom of a trail I had never seen before. Xavier dropped his bike and started up the trail. I followed. We climbed in silence for about twenty minutes, the late afternoon sun glinting through the trees. Finally we reached the top — about sixty feet high. It was so beautiful — the green trees hugging the cliff face, giving way to the sparkling blue lake below.

“It’s amazing,” I managed to stammer.“Yeah,” said Xavier, pulling out some organic sprouts

from his backpack. “It’s a great place for me to think.” He spoke as if in another world. “Come on! Let’s get a better look.”

We walked up to the edge of the lookout. Xavier took out his special pen from Australia and a pad of notepaper.

“I like to bring it up here,” he said. “When I write, it makes me feel calm and happy.”

As he reached out his arms to take a deep breath of fresh air, the little golden pen from Australia slipped through his fingers and bounced to the edge of the cliff.

“Holy shit!” Xavier swore. “I have to get it!”Xavier!” I yelled. “It’s way too close to the edge!!”“Just trust me, Timothy,” Xavier said confidently. Those were his very last words. Xavier lost his footing

on the cliff that day, and his golden pen went with him.Hundreds of people showed up to Xavier’s funeral —

even Frank. Sophia gave a beautiful speech about Xavier that made everyone cry, especially when she read some of his poems. I sat at the back of the church, completely frozen.

For weeks, I could hardly look at anyone or say anything. All I would do is replay over and over again that scene on the cliff and what went wrong.

One day in November, Xavier’s father came to the door. He looked tired, but was smiling. At his feet was a large, brown trunk.

“Timothy,” he said sadly. “Xavier always knew that you loved his pens. I know that he would have wanted you to have them.” I stood there too shocked to speak.

“I mean — maybe, if you wanted to, you could, you know, maybe add to the collection from time to time.”

“Yeah — thanks,” I managed to stammer. He gave me a weak smile.

Did I ever tell you that I collect pens? Not just your average everyday pens, but pens with bright colours and bobbles on the end; pens with flare, colour and jazz. I have pens from around the world from places like India and Mozambique. I have pens with thousands of sayings; my favourite is, “Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams.”

I have over 5,000 different pens now — except for a little gold one with smiling koalas and kangaroos.

Madeleine Bondy, age 15

she told Me

My heart has never failed,To tell me what I neededThrough tears or through a smile,My heart went undefeated

So when, at a point in time,While I was torn inside,Not knowing what was missing,Or why I feared to cry,My heart told me the reason;She told me the reason why

She told me I was hurting,A pain that had no kinA pain I searched for through my eyes,While in truth, it lay within

A hole, she said, a hole it wasAn empty space in meAnd with it, I would surely lose,All that I could be

She told me, that to mend this wound,I should close my eyes,And for a moment, or maybe two,Should try to realize

That the hole in me was a missing part;A hidden puzzle piece,And once that piece was put into place,The pain would surely cease

For the hole, my heart told me,With the help of His loving Grace,Was missing not something lost,But rather a thing misplaced

That thing, I came to realize,When at last the time came,Was indeed something preciousOf which I had nearly lost claim

For, what I was missing, Was in fact a crucial presenceIt was the sense of my Self – My one true essence.

Mahfara Bakht, age 16


Urban RenewalTian Yang Lin, age 17


the tap

Slip switch, tap drips, drops fall into an abyss.Single, sliding, slithery tube, where is this place you take water to?At the end of the tunnel, it all gets quite clear.This substance it takes to a new atmosphere.Green life, new view, human perception has no kind of cue.Mould is not dangerous, nor waiting for doom, mould can live freely just likewe do.No hill is too fat, no twig is too skinny,Trees pay no mind to concepts like “win me”Rocks are just equal. No rock is more right.Dirt cannot pee, of course it won’t fight.Grass will just sit there, no care for its colour.Grass will just sit there, alongside his brothers.The best life of all, and we are not in.We’re all on the outside contained by our skin.

Cameron Cardwell, age 17

Wait For Me

Dogs barked at the excitement as I passed each of their cages. The place smelled of kibble and smelly dogs, but I was used to it now. I unlocked one lucky one, free to go to a new and better place with a loving family. I sighed as I took the leash from the owner and attached it to Riley’s collar. He was a three-legged chocolate brown dachshund.

“I’m going to miss you buddy,” I said and gave him over to the kid. I was so happy when each one of them left, seeing that they would have a better life. I wanted to cry but I didn’t. I returned to the other dogs to feed them. As I scooped kibble into each of their bowls, each pellet hit the bowl with a loud clunk and they immediately started digging in like hungry wild animals. I finally reached the very last cage where Spike lived.

Spike first came in when I was just starting to work at the pound. He wasn’t very healthy. He was drenched with gasoline, set on fire then almost eaten by other stray dogs. I looked at him now, all lonely and weak.

“Hey buddy,“ I said, stroking his head. “You hungry?” He looked at me with sad eyes.“OK, I’ll just leave your food here until you’re ready.”In truth, Spike was getting old and he wasn’t expected

to survive any longer. It would be a week before the pound would decide to put him down. That’s all he had left, one week to live.

Later that day, a mother came in with puffy red eyes. She explained that she wanted a dog for her son who was dying of cancer. I expressed my sympathy and showed her to the young, small hyper dogs. She refused them all.

Then she walked up to Spike and said, “I want this one.”

I didn’t dare to protest. “OK, but he’s an old dog.”As he departed he looked back at me one more time

and limped on. My eyes began to well with tears. I knew it wouldn’t be long until he would go as well.

“Goodbye old friend,” I whispered.The next day, the mother came by again, without

Spike. Once she came in, she burst into tears. I tried my best to comfort her. She explained to me that her son, Michael, had died in his sleep early in the night with Spike curled up next to him. They both died at the same time, peacefully, with each other. She left after telling me this.

I thought about what she said. Maybe it was one of those coincidences, where everything works out or maybe it was faith. Michael and Spike were dying slowly, but maybe they were waiting to find each other to die, waiting to take a long journey together, boy and dog.

Sierra Sun, age 13

World Hunger

Silently the rain falls

Silently she crawls

Silently hunger bites

Silently she fights

Silently the thunder howls

Silently her stomach growls

Silently she closes her eyes

Silently she cries

Silently the storm fades away

Silently she decays

Priyadarshini Roy, age 13


the Hitch-Hiker

Mr. Lewys, a manager at the lumber yard outside the city, was driving home on the highway leading to the city of Thera where he lived. He was tired and could barely focus on the driving when he noticed a lone man standing at the side of the road holding a hitch-hiking sign. Mr. Lewys was getting home from a night shift at the lumber yard and seeing a man stuck without a car at this hour made Mr. Lewys feel sorry for him. The hitch-hiker seemed decent; he had black gelled hair, wore a suit and carried a suitcase.

Mr. Lewys pulled over beside him, rolled down the car window and shouted, “Hey man what happened?” It was late and Mr. Lewys just wanted to help this guy then go home. “Oh I was driving home with my wife when we got in a fight. She was driving so she kicked me out of the car,” the hitch-hiker replied. Mr. Lewys gave a small laugh. “Well, climb on in then.”

The hitch-hiker opened up the car door. He sat down in the back seat and strapped on the seat belt. “So, where in Thera are you going?” Mr. Lewys asked. “I’ve never been to Thera before,” said the hitch-hiker opening his suitcase. Mr. Lewys was surprised. “Weren’t you holding a sign that said To Thera?” Mr. Lewys was about to turn around when he felt a cold metallic edge on his neck, “Do not turn around just drive to your house.” Mr. Lewys, fearing for his life, fumbled with the clutch and did what the man asked.

When the two men arrived at Mr. Lewys’s house they exited the car. They walked up the stairs to the bedroom. The hitch-hiker reached into his pocket and took out a prescription of anti-depressants. He poured the remaining pills into his hand and tilted Mr. Lewys’s head back. The hitch-hiker dropped the pills down Mr. Lewys’s throat then held Mr. Lewys’s mouth closed. Mr. Lewys swallowed the pills for if he didn’t he would have choked.

Within a few minutes Mr. Lewys collapsed onto the floor. The hitch-hiker picked up Mr. Lewys’s corpse and placed it, chest down on the bed, with the head facing the window. The hitch-hiker then placed the empty vial of anti-depressants, the label half peeled off, from his pocket and placed it on the nightstand next to the bed. The next morning when Mr. Lewys, who was known as a workaholic, didn’t show up for work his manager called the police.

After a few days of investigating the police ruled that Mr. Lewys had died of anti-depressant overdose. They concluded it was a suicide since Mr. Lewys had been seeing a psychologist for problems at work. At Mr. Lewys’s funeral, amongst all the family and friends was the new manager. The young man, with gelled black hair, took out a prescription of anti-depressants, and ate the last pill. He then threw away the label-less bottle and left.

Andy Huang, age 13

Poem of Hope

I hope one day the world will be at peaceAll worldwide problems would decreaseThings like racism and discriminationWould disintegrate and we’d unite as one nation

I hope no one will have low self-esteemAnd people will try to achieve their dreamsI hope people will be accepted for who they areAnd no one will ever have to fight in a war

I hope girls will learn they’re beautiful no matter what anyone may sayAnd learn that it doesn’t matter anywayI hope girls will learn they’re pretty no matter what sizeThat they don’t have to change themselves for anyone’s eyes

I hope that everyone will learn to live happilyAlthough us humans may sometimes disagreeI hope everyone will remain true to his or her heartAnd never go through the pain of feeling torn apart

I hope one day everyone will be freeFrom the critical eyes of our societyNo one would ever be abusedAnd people would never be falsely accused

I hope people will always keep a positive attitudeNo matter what they may go throughI hope everyone will find his or her soulmate And that friendships would never disintegrate

Marie Lane, age 15


UnrequitedWendy Long, age 16


Being YourselfBonnie Mai, age 16


Lost, Forever

I don’t recall the time when I started to feel it evaporate into the thin air. It was a slow-moving, gradual process. Like when you let a handful of sand slip through your fingers, one grain at a time.

I remember the time that I used to laugh about almost anything when I was little. It seemed like everything was just perfect: my food, my toys, my room and my clothes. I had almost nothing to think about besides the little homework that I got and the half an hour of piano that I had to practice everyday. I was having the happiest and possibly the most delightful time of my life. Being an innocent eight-year-old, I was convinced that this contentment would last me a lifetime and that it would never cease. Well, I eventually realized that I was wrong.

It is not that I am not happy anymore, or that I do not enjoy life any longer; I guess it is really a sense of maturity that comes with growth. I started to take more notice of my surroundings and questioned everything around me. I wondered why there was always an old man in rags by the sidewalk that I used to pass everyday. I remember distinctly how intrigued I was the first time I saw him. It was just before sunset, and after observing him for a few minutes, I did not understand why he was sitting in the streets when everyone was heading home or why he kept on thrusting a torn cup in the face of every pedestrian. So I approached him and asked curiously why he was still wandering around and not going home like everybody else. I waited patiently for his response, but it never came. But I did manage to catch the awkward smile that he wore and the uneasiness that he showed while shifting his feet. Of course, I did not understand the reason for his silence until a few years later, when I finally came to an understanding of many things that truly confounded me in my childhood.

I understood why people looked on with disgust when two girls are walking down the street, holding hands. I understood why my peers talked and gossiped about the prettiest girl in the class. Images from magazines made me understand why girls have to be skinny.

As I grew older, I became more aware of the amount of unfairness and prejudice and the number of stereotypes that surrounded me. Now, I discover that I am no longer the naïve eight-year-old. I will never return to the point where I thought that the entire world is perfect and that everyone is equal because I have lost the “thing” that made me believe so. It may have been the bluntness of a child’s mind, or the uncorrupted honesty that children posses, or simply the childlike innocence that we all once had in us. Whatever it was, it is gone. Lost, forever. And I, as a result, have changed and never will be the same.

Irene Li, age 16

A Puppeteer’s Choice

One last present remained unopened on Christmas Eve.I reached down to grab it; only to discover it was for me.As I lifted the cover, I was so surprised;To find a handsome, young boy look straight into my eyes.All of a sudden, he became my favourite toy.In no time, my other dolls became very annoyed.We laughed and played every single day.I couldn’t imagine giving my handsome puppet away!Time passed — I started to see little mistakes.I hid my feelings away, for the puppet’s own sake.My heart tells me I won’t need this toy anymore.I needed something new, so I browsed inside a store.My eyes adhered onto a new puppet like glue.More handsome is he; whose eyes are bright blue.I feel new love piercing through my heart;faster than an arrow, or even a dart.After this day, my old puppet was gone.He predicted this would happen; he knew all along.Owning two puppets can put you to the test.But in the end, I kept the one who I thought was best.

Ashley Lo Russo, age 18

As the plane that would take us to New York City taxied towards the runway ready for takeoff, my mother recalled that I had cried out, “Daddy.” I was three, and my parents had ended their marriage; my mother and I were going to start a new life somewhere far away. I didn’t know what that meant, except that my father wouldn’t be there.

I have no memory of what happened during our first year in New York. But my mother made sure that I remembered. I have photographs of my trip to Central Park to see Gus, the neurotic polar bear (he is famous for swimming short laps and doing back strokes for hours in his pool), and to pose for a charcoal portrait by one of the resident sidewalk artists. There are photographs of my first snow, my first glimpse of the giant Christmas tree of the Rockefeller Center, my first show on Broadway.

There are photographs of me in my first winter coat that my mother is particularly fond of. She said that an old man selling roses had been so moved when he saw me jauntily walking down the streets of Manhattan that he bent down, handed me a rose, and said, “To you, the most beautiful girl in the world.” For us, that moment captured the essence of New York. Yes, New York is a city of strangers. But it’s also a city with a free, spontaneous and generous soul, where people celebrate you when you walk with a hat decked with fresh flowers on Fifth Avenue (true story) or if you hand a little girl a rose, just because. You see in New York, you are a stranger only


once. Then you become a fellow sojourner. As I look at more photographs, I am struck at how many include people we don’t know but who were happily smiling with us. That’s not to say that there were no hard times for my mother. But as she said, money was short but life was always full in New York.

Although I’m content with my life in Toronto, I still think of what it would be like to return to New York. In many ways, I’m attached to it because it was where I learned how different people from different walks of life could, together, build a vibrant city. I attribute much of who I am today — a young woman who’s not afraid to stand up for her beliefs, who cares and gets along with others — to my early years in New York.

It would perhaps seem strange that I would still choose to live in a place now simply associated with the words 9/11, terrorism, pain and loss. All I know is that the tragedy notwithstanding, it is still the city that makes my heart flutter.

Beatrice Paez, age 19

Colours and Shapes

It was hard to be a circle when everyone around you was a square. It also didn’t help that they were all beautiful and green when I was an ugly shade of blue. It took me a while to figure out how to fit into the same holes they did, but when I did, I was happy, or at least I thought I was. I mean fitting in is everything, right? That’s what I used to think, so I did all kinds of things to fit in. I’d cut away parts of myself to look more square and I’d cover myself in green paint that stung my skin, so they wouldn’t know who I really was. It was painful and incredibly difficult to pretend to be something I wasn’t, but I didn’t care. Fitting in was everything to me.

Time passed and I changed schools. My new school was full of green squares and I kept pretending to be like them. Then, one day, a bright pink star sat next to me in class. The star was so different from everyone else, and she didn’t even care! I sat next to her for days before I worked up enough courage to talk to her. When I finally started a conversation with her, she smiled — a real smile, not like my fake ones. She was happy being herself and I wondered, “Why can’t I be happy like her?” My false life held no comfort for me anymore. I smiled back at her and asked, “What do you think of the colour blue?”

The star grinned back at me and said, “I like blue, it’s a nice colour.” The next day I chose to forgo the green paint and I stopped cutting away pieces of myself. It no longer mattered to me that I was different because I was a blue circle instead of a green square. My best friend was a pink star and I was happy.

Chloe Jennings, age 17


World’s natural BeautyAneri Patel, age 13


natural BeautyRamya Rajagopal, age 19


Blinded by the Rain

I spent my flight to Korea reading a short story called “100% Perfect Girl” by Haruki Murakami. I found it absurd — how two people could simply pass each other on an ordinary April morning and assume with utter conviction that the other was their soulmate. I was mildly irritated. Could love be so fickle?

During my few months as an international exchange student at the prestigious CheongShim International Academy, I spent my weekends exploring the city. A blue cloudless Sunday saw me getting lost in the backstreets of Seoul, but I soon found comfort in the discovery of a small café half-hidden behind a busy market square. Relaxing on the patio, I noticed a young woman not much older than myself sitting a table away. She was not particularly pretty, nor did she possess any outstanding features. It was the expression on her face that caught my attention, a forlorn and desolate look that betrayed the playful tug of the warm breeze. I could not see how such a fine day could cause the little furrow between her eyebrows or the severity in the set of her chin.

My journalistic mindset shifted into position and I initiated a conversation. She was reserved at first; somewhat alarmed at the audaciousness of a foreigner who only knew a handful of stuttered Korean words. Thankfully, the girl, whose name I gathered to be Ae Sook, made up for my incompetence with her English. It wasn’t long before I found out the reason behind her melancholy. She had just rejected her childhood friend, “a boy I’d known ever since I was still wriggling in my crib,” she said. He was from a good family — “rich, intelligent and good-looking,” she described, losing herself in the stirring of her juice. I was most curious, unable to understand why she had not given him a chance. She glanced at me at this point, saying bitterly that she would give anything to love him. Her frustration irked me, and I felt clumsy in my attempts to console her as I watched her fingers curl into her palm. “I hate love,” she told me, “it has a mind of its own, and reciprocates with a disregard for convention and logic.”

To make her feel better, I shared with her the stories of my parents and grandparents. I assured her that she was right to have rejected her friend, because who knew if he snored in his sleep or spent all his time partying at night? If he was as great as she depicted, he could very well have fifty secret girlfriends on the side vying for his attention. Though she didn’t understand, I felt the need to quote Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, “love is blind and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit.” I liked to think that my words brought her some semblance of comfort.

She asked for my email and phone number, promising to call and schedule a lunch. However, as she stood up to leave, she accidentally tripped on her jacket sleeve that had gotten caught beneath the chair. It was a waiter who went to her rescue, settling her back onto her feet.

Had I seen a slight blush appear on her cheeks? I cannot remember.

I forgot about her for a while. My life was overwhelmed by my studies, and with the addition of new friends, I spent more time at karaoke bars than being alone in sidewalk cafés. It was five weeks later when she called me. We met at the same café on a Saturday; this time the sky was tainted with shadows of grey clouds. Rain was inevitable. Her appearance, once again, contrasted with the weather. There was a remarkable smile on her face that stretched to the corners of her eyes. I began to see why her friend liked her. She pulled me to sit down as she went to call on a waiter. To my surprise, Ae Sook pulled a familiar waiter to our table and introduced him to me. “He’s my boyfriend,” she told me proudly. “We’re in love.”

I would have laughed at such absurdity had I not caught the look that passed between them at those words. Her smile and the soft touch at his elbow bade me to reconsider. I hardly paid attention to the conversation that followed. I knew a few details — that she had gone back to see him, that her parents disapproved and that he had dropped out of college. Though she never once reiterated the word “love”, I could see how very much in love she was.

I left when it began to rain. I had not brought an umbrella with me, and the rain that slid into my eyes blinded me. In my moments of sightlessness, I could see how love itself was just as blind. This profound feeling was not governed by direction or the need to reciprocate, and it hid the truth as much as it revealed it. If society was a room, then love was a window — it did not facilitate conventional ideas. I walked forward in the soft pitter-pattering of the rain, finding myself richer in my belief of love and acquiring a poignant sense of hope.

Annie Li, age 17


never Gave Much thought

In truth, I never gave much thought to what I would do.I always assumed that by the time it came, I would know.There always seemed to be so much time, it felt like it would never come. So…I never gave it much of a thought.

As our future comes undone before us, we realize we count in years. Not in semesters, grades or days but years. We come to realize that time is limited, and using it wisely is a difficult task. I don’t know where it all went; one moment I’m wishing to grow up faster, the next I pray for time to go slowly.

At one point a hand held mine tightly, the next point I was expected to cross the street on my own. I fear what I can’t see, and what I can’t see is the future. The feelings of growing up are so dramatic and dynamic. They’re so unexpected…Who ever knew picking an interest would be so hard.

I never saw it coming, I never saw this fear. Don’t ask me where you should go, for I, myself, do not know where I should go. I don’t know what awaits me at the end, but the gamble will be taken. Let’s just hope this gamble will not result in debt.

I wish I could take this risk, this challenge, without looking back, but I can’t. Never did take the time to anticipate, never thought it would arrive so soon. A fool, I am, to have taken time for granted. Though I am still young, I feel as though ignorance cannot be an excuse.

In truth, the thought only lingered in the back room. The light switch was never flickered on. Neither thought nor idea ever crossed the forefront. I never did give it much of a thought.

Erika Chung, age 15

sandcastles

The wind stole the rising puffs of smoke into the expansive sky. An almost elderly man smokes while casually sitting on the bench. Children play on the beach in front of him. His stylishly infallible tuxedo seems to correct his posture, hiding the sagging flesh creeping up to his gold wristwatch. Wrinkles and re-enforced creases wind along his worn features, remnants of a life’s toil.

Like a beach ball bouncing to a stop a young boy sits

down beside the man, his mother has gone getting ice cream. He appraises the man, factually stating, “You must be rich.”

Looking at the newly empty space gnawing his ring finger, the man shrugs. He takes more puffs.

Wanting the affluent man’s attention, the child compliments, “I want to be like you when I grow up. Not old…rich.”

Cocking an eyebrow, the man sits back in the bench, pondering the child’s statement as though it was a dream mirrored in his own past. His childhood had been a torrent of future plannings: don’t waste time on anything except work; love the smell of money. He had noticed the same child previously constructing an iconic sandcastle. It still stood, without despondency, as a fortification of the childhood imagination unravaged by the grind of adult life. Work. Sleep. Work.

Realization struck. What do I have, thought the man and he grimaced. His divorced trophy wife had been a comfort…fake love aside, company is company. So what if he read about himself in Forbes? He was alone. He had no children to carry on his biological identity. He lost his best years…most of his life…for pieces of paper representing a social contract, that only lured him into a corporate existence…unending competition. He knew his life would eventually end with a financial estate and family conflicts over who deserved his hoard.

“Don’t be like me kid,” he sighs, “your childhood is too precious…freedom from our grown-up rules is too precious.”

Cocking his head, the child frowns. The man, glancing at his watch, gets up, exhaling another breath of cigarettes. He didn’t know why he picked up the habit: maybe he needed to see his life go up in smoke.

Gazing at the sandcastle, he watches children on the beach dance around it. They laugh while running by. Ignoring the passage of time and their parents, the children and sandcastle create a microcosm of their own. Their maturing is abated; their imagination is preserved. And in a world of wind, games and sandcastles, they touch the fountain of youth.

“Hey kid,” he couldn’t express all he thought, it was too painful, “I know one secret that can make you truly happy…just promise to practice it your whole life.”

The child’s eyes dilate, he licks away a drop of drool caressing his cheek.

“Build more sandcastles.”

Ben Donato Woodger, age 15


the Village of CanadaKevin Wu, age 12


Pomegranate

Mother Nature held a red pomegranate between her milky white hands. The seeds were to the pomegranate what the humans were to her. And she often loved the humans all as they were her own creation, but tonight she felt a swell of anger toward mankind.

Clouds of grey smoke puffed up to the horizon from the monstrosity of machines those humans used for moving around. As every puff rose to burn a hole through the sky, they also singed a hole through Mother Nature’s heart.

Had she not raised her children better than this? Had she not taught them to love all things living that were their brothers and sisters? Her children had gone rotten. Father Time felt her anger and placed a soft hand on her shoulder.

“Their end is nearing,” he said in his ticking voice. But Mother Nature was not awaiting the end. She loved them.

“Not all are so greedy,” she said in a passive voice.“No? Look around — look at the oceans and what

little remains fresh because of the people greedy for the money their nuclear plants will make. Look at the poor sitting hungry and empty on the streets as the rich live on their private islands and lavish in frivolous luxuries; all the while aware of the hardships the poor face.

“Tell me, Mother, how does it feel to know that you are dying more and more every day and you regret pulling the sun up to continue giving pleasure to your evil little children? How does it feel to know it is your creations destroying the very shield that keeps them and you alive? You see your kids and see the lengths their greed pushes them to. You see the bloodshed of others, the slaughter of their own siblings. You see.”

“Enough!” Mother Nature cried out. The sky cracked open in thunder and rain gushed down, the tears washing down her cheeks in perfect drops. “Stop,” her voice cracked as she sobbed.

“You are too easy, Mother,” Father Time sounded disappointed, “Why do you let them do this to you?”

“I would do this,” Father Time swept his arm in front of a young sapling and they both turned to watch. For seconds, it didn’t seem as if anything was happening.

But then the tree seemed to shift slightly, aging and withering, the leaves dropping and the trunk turning black.

“No!” Mother Nature screamed. A bolt of lightning clashed thunderously in the sky. The aging of the tree instantly stopped. “No, there’s no need to kill the tree! Listen to me, Father Time, I love my children! They are not simply creations; they are more!” The rain instantly stopped. A still silence lingered in the air; like the silence before a storm. Mother Nature closed her eyes, “And I will give them the chance to prove it,” she whispered. The pomegranate dropped to the ground and rolled to the base of the dying tree, as the storm ensued.

Enxhi Kondi, age 15

the Game of Life

One man walks the earth aloneThe slave awaits the king by his throneThere is no love, only fearAs the child whispers in the earOf the mother lying in the bedCold and sick and soon to be dead.

Drops of heaven fall upon my lipsThe rhythm comes back to my fingertipsWith strength from God, I lift myselfUpon my feet with perfect healthI danced with God to the rhythm of lifeCreating love, destroying strife.

Surrounded by angels, may we all beNo matter what religion if it’s you, or meAll deserve happiness, equality, and loveMay it always be sunshine we see up aboveAnd when you trip and fall on your faceAnd when you start to lose your graceWhen you can’t hold on and drop to your kneesRemember we all have times like these.

Alyssa Frank, age 12

Double trap Back

She’s late. Thirteen minutes after four I checked on my watch. I sat on a swing at a local neighbourhood park; the wind blew though my body. It was mid-October when she agreed to meet up with me.

I had parked my van just on the side of the road, with two of my buds back hiding in the bushes. We were all set and ready to catch the girl I met online.

Melissa was her name, and 14 was her age. Long wavy red hair and a shape of a model, she was everything you would find in a catalogue.

The last conversation we had just yesterday, I asked if she wanted to meet up she told me yes, “I’ve told you many things about myself and my life. I’ve never really asked about you about yours, what’s your age, how do you look like?” Melissa asked me at the very last moment. I became nervous from all the questions asked. I was twice the age I told her, and just stole a picture off of Google. She took in all of the information and never asked once again, I couldn’t believe how gullible she was. I asked her, “How will I know that’s it’s really you not another girl?” She replied, “I will be wearing a bright red hooded coat, and carrying a red bag.”

I got up and paced around the park. I rechecked my watch one minute till five. I turned to look at both of my buds; I nodded turning my head left to right. They pointed behind me, I quickly turned around. I knew that was her, the red hooded coat and the red bag she carried.


She’s coming, her head was covered by the massive hood she had on. Her red hood I couldn’t miss, every step she came closer, my heart beat faster.

All of us jumped and grabbed her into the van; one of my friends drove off. “So what are you going to do with her?” They laughed and chuckled. She didn’t struggle to break free, I pulled off her hood. “What are you going to do with her?” The girl was actually a woman twice my age. There were wrinkles over her body; she had extra skin on her face. The pictures she showed me were nothing like her. She finally spoke,

“Guys like you make me sick. How does it feel to be the victim? Clark Thomson, if that is your real name, you just fell into your own trap. BUSTED!”

Sirens echoed and raced from the back of the van.

Lisa My Huynh, age 14

two Weeks to Live: A sonnet I popped into this planet not knowing The fact that life just lasts about two weeks Long. Some poor, white maggot was I squirming Around your dump searching for what one seeks.

You don’t know how to value what I give Because I can only soar like a birdOn fire. You whack me won’t you let me liveThe foul short time I have. Is this absurd?

I have devoured your junk and played my part And as I die you mutely, glumly gasp.You watched me work and now I’m in your heart.I lay here motionless. You at last grasp;

To be a fly is not all easy see,Remember me, I ask for this from thee.

Nithla Mohanathas, age 17

Susie sat in class, her mind wandering to far-off places. Her concentration time span had always been short, but it never bothered her. Her parents, however, were another story. They took her to every child psychologist and doctor that they could when she was little to see what was wrong with her. Some had called it ADHD, others had told them that she was fine. “She’s a terribly bright young lady,” one had said. “But that attention span does worry me. It could lead to problems later in life.” Well, it was 10 years later, and she had been doing fine so far.

Whenever she day dreamed in class, she always went into the same place. It was during rehearsal one day at a show that had just been completed. She was rehearsing her lines with another cast member and everything was

going on around her. There were people putting up set pieces, the costume designer at her sewing machine, other actors around her reading their lines, and various other activities that made the scene very chaotic. The air smelled thickly of freshly sawed wood and the heat from the machines doing it. Susie’s visual sense almost went into overdrive with all of the things happening in that scene. The vibrant colours of the Renaissance costumes, the craggly stone background set, the paint being painstakingly applied to minute props, and of course, many, many people running everywhere to complete their tasks. Susie always went to this scene because it was the only time that she actually felt as though she was enjoying something. Away from her nagging parents, away from drama between friends, away from too much school work and especially away from boredom. It was as though nothing else in the world really mattered at that moment, except for her happiness. This was the way it was meant to be.

Jackie Mahoney, age 15

order Here

-Small coffee, please.-Pardon?-Small coffee.-Uh, tall or short?-Small. -Ok, tall. Um, do you want bold?-No, I don’t want a “bold”! I have never consumed

a drink called a “bold” in my life! I want coffee! You must know what coffee is. It says so right on the front of your store. You can go out and read it if you doubt me: Starbucks Coffee, it says. Look — I’ll make it very easy for you. I am going to tell you exactly what I want.

First, I want the juice of a bean called the coffee bean. This bean has been bought from a starving farmer in a third-world country. If possible, I would like to consume the juice of beans bought from a worker who has been paid at least enough to feed his children, if not himself. Then, I would like you to put this juice into a cup made of dead trees. If possible, I would like these trees to have already been used for something useful. Then, I would like to be provided with a liquid with its origins in the mammary glands of a cow. If possible, I would like the cow that provides me with this to have been at least well-treated enough to have avoided developing an infection that would deposit pus into my drink. After I have been provided with all of these things, I will pay you for them. If you are in a good mood, (which you aren’t on account of the fact that you are serving grumpy people at six-thirty in the morning) you might thank me for my patronage. It’s fine if you don’t, though, because I don’t plan on thanking you for your service. OK? Go.

Anna Norris, age 16


Lunar KeeperNancy Wu, age 12


Remembering

Hello.Remember me?We used to be friends.I was your partnerAnd you were my soulmate.We’d lie together on sunny August days;I’d watch you sleepYou’d listen to me breathe.Remember?I’d follow you everywhereAnd you’d keep me safe.I’d call you by the hourAnd you’d chuckle,Letting me drink in your warm voice.I thought you were the mostBeautiful, captivating, divine —A rose among the coal,A diamond in the thorns.Remember?You’d look at me with those depthless, unclosed eyes,Hypnotizing my soul,Whispering our perfectly entwined fateHow I’d be your sunAnd you’d be my shooting star.Remember?You’d hold me to your chestAnd I’d cling on,Wishing that distance was measured in coloursRather than spaces.You’d laugh, and ruffle my hair,Parting with the velocity of light,As such you were.I’d linger, melting into the broken airFollowing the contours of your exhaleWondering where the last kiss went.Remember?You were my everything.And evenAs the lashes withdrew, and the blissful waltzWound down to a broken organ’s chime,EvenAs the slumber shattered, and the dreamWas bitten, masticated, and ingested by you,I stillTied on the blindfold,Like a birthday piñataThat refuses to break.And then,It all burned down.Remember?You’d stab my prayers to the tomb,Pull my fingers from their measly sockets,Gut me in the stomach,And stuff me with your black bile of pain,Murmuring “Happy Thanksgiving, dear.”

You’d watch my hair burn in the moonlightLaughing at my shadowed moans,My muffled sobs,The impending lunacy you endowed upon me.You’d seize the raining tears from my faceAnd grinning that sweet smile of love,Throw them, icy daggers, back into their sheathsImpatient to see me cry once more.You’d tear the fabric from my eyesSpitting at me, tempting meTo hate back.You’d lock me in our own bedroomAnd I’d stareAt the door’s dark fingerprintGrowing on me like your own life-wrenchingLies.I’d thirst for your bloodAnd you’d feast on mine.I’d stab your backYou’d stab my heart.I’d weep for helpYou’d cry for hell.I’d kill you in my miseryYou’d slaughter me in felicity.You’d teach me how to hurtEach day was a new educational reformOf gore, galore.I’d be your sun, your fodderTo strangle and clench and fully digest.You’d be my star, my wishMetamorphosed to my nightmare’s thickest desire.You hated meAnd I followed your sandy footprintsDying into the sapphire oceanWhere blood bursts from the veinsAnd the corpse is vomited back to the merciless surface,Licked clean of the murder’s deed.We were enemies.Remember?We left for good and bad that time.No goodbyes, but justGone.Remember? Remember me?Hello?Mom?

Jenny Shen, age 16


Ladybugs FlyJason Yu, age 14


not Yet

“Am I paranoid? Well, that would really depend on which one of the people following me wants that information.” I smiled to myself at my response.

“I’ll say yes,” the psychiatrist said. I could tell by her face she was more than a little weirded out. I saw her tick off a little box on the clipboard. “Are you in denial?”

“Yes,” I said with a smug grin on my face.“Suicidal?”“Yes.”“On drugs?”“Yes.”“Pregnant?”“Yes.”“Dead?”“Of course.”The psychiatrist sighed and rose from her seat. Her

seat was disgusting — green and yellow stripes ran all the way down it, matching the putrid green-and-yellow-striped wallpaper behind her. The chair was kept in much better condition than the one I was forced to sit on: no gum splotches decorated the back; not even a swear word written in permanent marker was etched into it. Someone that clean was not normal.

I heard the scratching of her pencil on paper and knew that I was going to hear the words I always heard: “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Price, I don’t really know what’s wrong with your daughter. She just seems to be disobedient. Try making her put more effort into her studies.” It was always studies or sports or hobbies or friends. What sad creature craved to be social so badly as to keep up an unreal relationship with friends?

Oh, yeah. Normal people, apparently.The scratching stopped. I looked up from picking at

a thread that was coming out of my chair to see that the psychiatrist was looking at me. Not exactly staring, but analyzing.

“Is something wrong, Nora?” she said softly.I stared at her. “I think you should take another look

at your questionnaire.”Without replying, she headed over to a drawer. She

shuffled around in it for a bit, then came back to her chair with something in her hands. She turned it around: it was a photo of a teenage guy with a huge grin on his face, one arm wrapped around a smaller lady with sunglasses on.

“This is my son,” she said, her voice faltering a little.Oh no. The look-at-my-family-and-now-be-normal

kind of psychiatrist. Those were the worst.“He’s in Afghanistan.”I nodded, and she went into the front room. I flipped

the picture over, just playing with it, but on the back was a note:

I really am sorry about Tom. My family and I give our condolences. Here’s a picture of him when you guys went to that beach. I thought you might like it.

I flipped it back over, running my finger over the face of the guy I could only assume was Tom. I don’t know how long I stared at that picture, but after a while I realized that they would be waiting for me out front.

Before going, I went over to the clipboard. Where “yes” had been checked off for “DEAD,” I erased it and wrote in, “Not yet.”

Amy Schacherl, age 14

never to Hold

My mother always adored my hair. She loved its mahogany colour…almost red. She loved its curliness. She loved it because my father gave it to me.

“Mommy, where’s Daddy?” I remember asking as I stared at the only existing picture I had of my father with his curly mahogany hair and vivid chestnut eyes.

My mother, her face worn with tiredness and age, gazed at me with desolate eyes. She smiled her odd smile, with the corners of her mouth turning downwards, “Daddy’s not in our life anymore.”

“Oh.”She turned to me and smiled her sad smile. Reaching

out, she grasped a brush and began running it through the impossible tangle that was my hair.

“Some people are only temporarily in your life. The situation you’re in might be impossible. The timing that you meet might be too early or too late. Sometimes you’re just unlucky.” She murmured quietly, “That’s what happened to your daddy and mommy.”

My mother paused to wrestle the brush out of the jungle of my hair. She continued, “I will always have your dad with me — but not necessarily beside me. I will always have him in my heart, but I will never be able to hold him… You’ll understand.”

I didn’t.

Light feet approached my desk area, “Hi, is this seat taken?” I heard a sweet voice question.

“No, go ahead.” I looked up from my math book to greet the stranger.

“Hi, I’m Julie,” the girl declared.

A few weeks had passed and Julie and I had become best friends.

“Come over to my house!” Julie begged.I laughed, “Alright, but only for a minute, I have to

help my mom with the chores today.”“Your mom’s so strong. I couldn’t imagine my mom

and I living without my dad,” she commented.I simply smiled the sad smile I inherited from my

mother.Julie and I bounced down the road. We stopped in

front of a large yellow house with a picket fence.“My dad’s a president of a small company so we live


pretty well,” explained Julie as I flagrantly gaped at her house. She stretched her arms out and yawned, “He’s the best dad I could ask for… you should meet him.”

As if he knew we were talking about him, the door slowly creaked open and Julie’s dad’s rich, booming rumble sounded, “Julie! You’re back? I see you’ve brought a friend.”

“Yeah Dad, I want you to meet her.”The white door creaked completely open.There in the doorway stood a tall man with curly hair.

It was mahogany in colour… almost red. The man’s vivid chestnut eyes widened.

My father stood at the door.An elegant arm slowly hung itself leisurely onto

my father’s broad shoulders, “Julie, your friend is very pretty! Isn’t she, James?” Julie’s mother complimented me, turning towards my stupefied father.

And now I understand my poor mother’s (and now my) position:

To have but never to hold.

Wendy Tan, age 15

Power

That coffee cup was once living, growing, vividly greenUndulating carbon dioxide for the air in my lungsDripping and dancing in the rain,All powerful, the circumference of a bear hug.ZZZZZZZZZZ, BOOM.It bled soft green wisps of soul as it died,Swirling over the lumberjack’s chainsaw,Forgiving and forgetting but nonethelessDead.Shipped to a factory, ground to bits,Mincemeat pulp for notebooks and novels and newspapersAnd coffee cups, packed in cartonsAnd packed into trucksAnd packed onto highwaysTo pack the coffee shops.Fuel burned for fuel drunk,Green ink on formerly green leaves,And all the while, the air in my lungs is vanishingAs the caffeine in my bloodstream is poisoning.

We’ve got the power to smash a tree two metres wide.We’ve also got the power to let it live.

Rudrapriya Rathore, age 16

sibling Wars

“This is do or die.” “Pardon?”“Means you have to do it, or you DIE!”“Thanks for the translation, dumbass, I know what it

means.”“Well, you said pardon, so I figured you didn’t

understand.” ”I understand fine.”“Fine.”“Fine.”

“I’m not going to die if I don’t finish this...”“Yes, you are.”“Who says?” “Me.”

“Whatcha gonna do? Kill me?”“Uh huh.”“Oh yeah? How are you gonna do that?” “With this toilet plunger right here.”“I see.”“You laughing at me?” “Yep.”

“So...” “Shut up, okay, I’m trying to think...”“Oh, right. Should have known.”“You think you’re funny by being sarcastic?”“Yes.”“Well, you’re not. It’s just annoying.”“You’re annoying.”“Oh, stop it.”“You stop it.”“Shut up, will you?”“You shut up.”

“So...what should I do?”“Dunno.”“Oh, great help you are.”“Pfft. Not like you’re doing much more.”“I was just asking your opinion.”“Oh, sure you were... you wanted me to give you the

answer.”“What?! Why would I ask you for the answer? You’re

so dumb, you wouldn’t even know the answer.”“Are you kidding me, I’m the one who skipped Grade

1 because I was too smart.”“So? I’m getting way better marks in school than you

are!” “Well, that’s because you’re three grades higher than

me.”“That doesn’t make a difference.”“Yes, it does.”“No, it doesn’t.” “Does!”“Doesn’t.”


“Does!”“Doesn’t!”“DOES!” “DOESN’T!” “Does...”

“Would you quit it?! Turn the music down! I can’t concentrate!”

“No. I like this song.”“Well, turn it down.”“Why should I?” “Because I want you to and I’m older and more

important than you.”“I can’t hear you!”“If you would turn down your stupid music, then you

would hear me.”“Exactly why I’m not turning it down.”“Ha! You can hear me! I win.”“What? Did you say something? I can’t hear you...”“Urrg! By the way, this is a really stupid song.”“Huh?”

“I hate you so much!”“I love you too!”

Lily Stafford, age 14

the Last sonnet

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?As chimneys smoke away and fires burn,As rough seas rise and shorelines sink away.Yet, unlike you these traits are rough and sternFor, as our planet rots and soon will dieAnd as the global mercury so tooMust you endure the scorching of the sky.Will you endure, and will life sprout anew?Yet towards these thoughts a blinded eye you turnConcerned more with vain thoughts and frivolous toilThrough all these years have you plain ceased to learn?You work, you reap, you rape and purge the soil.

For like a summer’s day you are naive To think that winter’s eve will grant reprieve.

Daniel King, age 18

scream

Did you want to?Have you ever?Want to rip out your hair or stomp so hard you break the floor?Throw your books at a wall or slam your fists against a table?Then just hit yourself on the head. Whatever it takes,to let it out.Feel like letting your legs crumble under you,then dissolving into the floorgetting into a corner,crawling under sheets,rolling into a ball,hiding in a closet,all seems like a good idea.Anythingto escape it.Why?I don’t know.Will I ever? Maybe.It fills me,consumes and incapacitates.I can’t escape it,I can’t let it out,whenever it leaves, it’s like a boomerangit eventually comes back.I’m going to burst...I’m fighting the urge to...Can you?Will you?Scream.Even when you can’t?

Abby Zednilag, age 13


the Heart WithinSara Wu, age 13


A bus incident

On a day of whatever date. It was too sunny, deprived of sleep, too many people, should’ve skipped more classes, I was hungry, my bag too heavy, lack of motivation.The bus was late.

An escalating storm.Ocean tides of navy and white watersSchool uniforms swaying and crashing in steady rhythm towards a common directionAn impatient crowd collecting on the sidewalkWorn feet scraping against worn pavementMomentum from a light jogLast in line.

What we have been wishing for:Adamantine steel disguised by red and white glossWheels thundering in slow revolution towards our glowing eyesAnd we can only dream of its mightAs it approaches the pulsing core of worshipInto its awaiting belly And I followUntil in the midst of my offering, its jaws snap me in two

Half in, anxious palms gripping the stepsHalf out, worn sneaker scraping against worn pavementA spectacle.

Journal entry: Thursday February ninth, two-thousand and six

Maggie Mai, age 17


My Canadian VoyageAinun Zaria, age 16


Call for submissions Express yourself!

young voices 2010m a g a z i n e o f t e e n w r i t i n g a n d a r t w o r k

1. Write what you want to write! Write about monster trucks, flower petals, dew on the morning grass, a dark and stormy night, love, death, bands, your friends, your parents, your dog, your favourite librarian (or not)...

2. submit only your own original work.

3. submissions are not returned. Keep a copy of your work.

4. toronto Public Library has one-time print and electronic rights to all work, as well as the right to excerpt from the work for purposes of promotion.

5. Written submissions will be selected from each of the following age categories: 12–14; 15–16; 17–19.

6. Artwork will not be categorized by age for the purposes of choosing what to publish.

WHo CAn enteRTeens, 12–19 years who live or goto school in the City of Toronto.

WHAt CAn Be enteReDYou can enter both writing and artwork (one written work and one artwork per person)Written Work: poems, stories,rants, reviews…• 1,000 words maximum• Typed entries preferred, but not

requiredArtwork: for inside the magazineor on the cover• 8 ½” x 11” preferred• Black and white artwork only• Submit only originals; no

photocopies, electronic scans, etc.

HoW to enteR• Fully complete the submission

form (see over)• Attach the form to your work• Drop your work off at any library

branch• For written work only, you

can submit online: torontopubliclibrary.ca/

youngvoices

seLeCtIon tIMeLInes • Submission deadline: saturday, April 10 2010• Editorial teams meet to make

selections during spring 2009• Contributors selected to be

published will be contacted during June 2009

• Questions? Contact Ken [email protected]

GUIDeLInes


Last name _______________________________________ First name(s) _____________________________________

Address _____________________________________________________________________________________________

Email ___________________________________________ Phone number ___________________________________

Age ______________ h Male h Female Today's date _____________________________________

Title of your submission ______________________________________________________________________________

Genre of submission:

h Poem h Fiction h Rant h Review h Art

h Other (please specify what type of work you are submitting) ________________________________________

Name of library branch where you submitted __________________________________________________________

I heard about Young Voices:

h at the library h at the mall h at school h at a shelter h online at ramp

h Other (please say where) ____________________________________________________

Young Voices 2010 submission Form

Please fill out this form fully and attach it to your submission. Submissions with incomplete forms may not be considered for publication.

Submission Deadline: Saturday, April 10, 2010

torontopubl i c l ibrar y.ca

✁

young voices 2009 4

When She leavesCathy Su, age 14

Yutaka 1971-2009Mandy Han, age 15

torontopubl ic l ibrar y.ca

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